


the lions

by Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Double Life, Identity Porn, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Not Canon Compliant, Slow Build, Social Media
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: It’s not that life isn’t good. The future—the present, as it stands—is great. The food is excellent. Messaging is instant. Movies are in 3D. Steve is only one medical miracle of many. Even the grime of New York City is nicer than the near-constant stink of the thirties. No, it’s not that the world is any worse.Steve was just lonely as hell.or, the one where steve is still captain america, bucky is a hot librarian, and they fall in love, anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s not that life isn't good.

The future—or the present, as it stands—is great. The food is excellent. Messaging is instant. Movies are in 3D. Steve is only one medical miracle of many. Hell, even the grime of New York in the twenty-first century is nicer than the oppressive, near-constant stink of growing up in the thirties.

No, it's not that the world is any worse. It's far better than Steve could have ever hoped for. It's better than what he ever _fought for_.

The twenty-first century world is great.

Steve was just lonely as hell.

**\---**

Excluding S.H.I.E.L.D. co-workers and his superpowered Avengers colleagues, Steve _really_ only has two friends, outside of the other senior citizens he runs into on his regular weekend strolls through Prospect Park.

One was a recently reformed ex-Russian spy with an unsettling sense of humor, emotional walls impenetrable as the Iron Curtain, and a habit of disappearing without warning or explanation for months at a time.

The other was about the closest thing one could be to _normal,_ as far as superhero vigilantes go. He even had a stable, _serious_ day job. The only caveat was he lived five hours away in Washington, D.C., and was fiercely loyal to his hometown—meaning he could only ever put up with Steve’s nonsense on long weekends or the occasional low-key reconnaissance mission.

It was because of one of those rare long weekends that friend two of two—one Sam Wilson, retired pararescue, current VA therapist, all-around great guy—was visiting Steve. It was nice, having someone over, filling the quiet spaces Steve had gotten just a little too accustomed to. It felt right. Steve's apartment was always too big and too empty without someone else in it.

Even with Sam visiting, Steve woke early, getting up long before dawn, before even New York City was fully awake. He dressed quickly, pulling on his favorite pair of joggers and his sleek athletic hoodie through muscle memory alone. Sam was fast asleep in his guest bedroom, snoring into his pillow, still probably exhausted from the drive. Steve smiled to himself when he saw Sam in passing, the door cracked open just slightly. As much as he wanted a partner, Steve wouldn't wake him—not because he knew Sam would refuse, but because he had a feeling Sam _wouldn’t._ Alone as usual, Steve peeled out of his apartment and into the still-dark streets, slipping into a familiar rhythm with each snap of his shoes against pavement.

Small as it was, Steve was grateful for his routine and the bare-bones structure that it offered. No matter how bizarre and surreal his work life might have been, he could always rely on that regular morning beat: the sunrise peeking over the skyline, _Morning Edition_ as his background noise, and breakfast on the way home. He was even starting to recognize other runners on his routes. They weren't friends, but they were familiar faces. Stability. Distant comrades, of sorts, all united as unofficial partners on those early-morning runs.

That was another plus of living in New York City in the future, another thing Steve could put on the mental tally he considered his unofficial _List of Good 21st Century Things_. If he wanted to go for a run, he could just step outside in some athletic shoes and go. No one would stop him, no one would look at him funny, and so long as he kept his routes messy and his pace steady, no one would so much as bat an eye. All he had to do was put his earbuds in, pull his hood up, and Captain America could melt into anonymity, if only just for a few precious hours. And after it all, after the seventy years of sleep and the alien attacks and becoming a _living legend,_ those hours were precious, indeed.

Steve wraps up his run a little early with Sam visiting, and makes his way back to his apartment just a few minutes past seven-thirty, right as the work rush was just starting to get into full swing. He'd grabbed breakfast quickly on the way home, one of the first people in line when the corner bagel place opened, having quickly learned that showing up any later would mean he wouldn’t be home for at _least_ another hour if he wanted to get breakfast. And he _would._ He barely has his shoes off and his earbuds out when his stomach growls loudly, sounding like an angry, demanding beast. Steve grabs one of his bagels and bites into it hungrily, taking out a huge chunk of bagel in one bite, looking just as monstrous and obscene as his stomach sounded.

One of the tradeoffs for a supersoldier metabolism: he either had to eat a ton, or he was always going to be hungry. It was just another part of his routine, another aspect of the strange reality he was coming to terms with.

"Lox and cream cheese for breakfast?" calls Sam's familiar voice from the hallway, sudden, but not an unwelcome shock. Steve brightens immediately, perking up as he turns towards Sam. "You really _are_ a hipster, dude."

Steve just barely manages to remember to swallow his mouthful of salmon and cheese _first,_ before he grins at Sam in his excitement. Manners, Rogers, he tells himself. No one wants to see that, especially this early in the morning.

"Look who it is! Conveniently just after I get home from my run," he says, tossing a smaller, less fishy bagel bag towards Sam, underhand this time. Steve learned from past mistakes. He still underestimates his supersoldier strength even seventy years after the serum, and he doesn't want bagel exploding all over his ceiling. Again. "Finally decided to wake up today?"

"Hey now. Be nice to me. Just drove in from D.C., I don't need to be running _anywhere_ , thank you. What’re you trying to do, getting me up before dawn, really. Get outta here," Sam says, as he peeks inside the bag. His demeanor changes instantly once he sees what's inside.

"Egg white and bacon on asiago?” Sam asks, looking like Steve got him a puppy.

“Yup,” Steve says, grabbing another lox bagel.

“I take that back. Rogers. You're alright,” says Sam. He takes a bite of the sandwich and all but _moans_. Steve raises his eyebrows at Sam, but he smiles at him, still, huffing out a little snort of a laugh as he does. When Sam speaks again, after taking a quiet little moment to chew slowly and thoughtfully, he’s waving his breakfast around like it's the best thing he's seen since the Starkphone. "That! Now _that_ is a damn good bagel sandwich, right there."

"Got a box of coffee, too," Steve says, as if anything could compare to Sam's delight over egg white, bacon, and cheese. Sam is clearly having a romantic moment with his bagel sandwich, but he makes a happy little noise when he sees the coffee box.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he sighs, dreamily.

"Didn't go for a run, that's for sure," Steve says, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the box. It's strong and full-bodied. Not the watery stuff that _needs_ sugar and cream and caramel-whatevers. As much as he loves sugary, creamy, caramel-whatevers, Steve misses a good, quality cup of ungarnished coffee. He takes mental note: _go back to the bagel place more often._

Sam shoots him a look. "I was talking to the bagel, Rogers."

Steve throws his head back and barks out a laugh. It's short, and it's nothing like his full-on, chest-grabbing laugh from his time with the Howlies, but it's a full-body gesture, and it's real. It's been a while since he laughed like that.

It's been a while since he's laughed at all, outside of soft little huffs and warm, half-genuine smiles.

"I'll be here all week. Well, all week until Tuesday," Sam says, bowing.

"Come on," Steve says, warmly, "let's sit down. Before one of us spills something."

They talk for a while. About work— _real_ work, Sam’s work; about Avengers business, about co-worker gossip and Steve's never-ending list of crucial hallmarks of pop culture he needs to catch up on. The _Notebook of What I Missed_ makes a reappearance, and Sam appraises each update like he's The New York Times' top culture critic. Breakfast stretches into eight, then eight thirty, then early into nine. The box of coffee is half-emptied by the time they settle down into their chairs, finally, for the moment, having run out of things to say.

For a second, Steve feels at peace.  

"Look, Steve, I—" Sam starts, voice going soft and serious, though not unkind. Steve's heart drops immediately. That voice he was using was his _work voice._ Steve knows Sam will never admit it, no matter how much it's so plainly true, but that voice _is_. It's the voice Sam only ever uses it when he wants to talk about uncomfortable truths.

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly feeling under scrutiny. He tucks his notebook into his hoodie pocket, as if to grab that warmth that filled their conversation so recently and hoard it away, as if to wrap his heart with it and brace himself for what they both knew was coming.

"I'm not gonna mince words here. Nat and I—" Sam continues, "—we're worried about you, dude."

And this. This is an uncomfortable truth. It's an uncomfortable truth that's clear—blatant, even. But Steve doesn't want to talk about it. That's about the last thing he wants to do.

"Oh, is _that_ why you came to visit me? Come on, Sam," he replies casually, brushing the subject off in expert Steve Rogers fashion, "You know me. I'm indestructible. You don't need to be worried about me."

"I came to visit you because I'm your friend, Steve, and I missed seeing you. This isn't the only reason I came to visit you," Sam says, his voice just on the edge between professional and tense. "But there's been some—concern. I _do_ have to worry about you, Steve. That’s the thing. You say I don't need to, but as your colleague and your friend, I _do._ "

Steve opens his mouth to say something, but Sam continues before he can get a word out.

"Look, Steve. You've been taking a lot of risks lately. You throw yourself into things without thinking, use your body as a wrecking ball, you nearly got yourself _killed_ taking down Hydra. If I hadn't been there to catch you when you fell from the Lumerian Star—"

He trails off, the weight of _what if_ hanging heavy in the air. He doesn't dare say what might have been. Neither does Steve. Not when he knows about Sam's history. Not when he knows about Riley. For once in his life, Steve bites his pugnacious little tongue and lets his friend speak. Sam takes a deep breath, heaving a huge sigh before continuing.

"I know you don't wanna talk about your feelings. I know you like to keep it all to yourself. Don't think I don't see it. Don't think Nat doesn't see it. But it's getting to the point, Steve, that these risks—they're getting to a point where we're concerned. We're getting to the point we think it might be something else."

They sit in silence for a second, parsing their thoughts.

"Sam," Steve says eventually, his voice low and serious, "Please understand this. I do what I need to do, I take risks like that, because people will die otherwise. They didn't experiment on me and make me this—this _unbreakable thing—_ for nothing. I take these risks because I _can._ Because it's my responsibility to. It's why Erksine chose me for the serum—it's why Erksine _made me_ this in the first place. I have to be willing to take risks to do good, Sam. If I didn't, I'd be another—I don't know, _dancing monkey_. Or worse, I'd be a lab rat. What's the alternative? _Who's_ the alternative? You know I can't let it be you."

"I know, Steve. I know. But you need to take care of _yourself,_ too. You've gotta do something when you're hurting. Natasha and I, both of us—I do mean both of us, as much as she won't say anything—we're worried about you. And we have _no clue_ what we'd do if—if we found ourselves without you. In-field and off the job. _Especially_ off the job, dude," Sam says, sounding like he's straining to keep his voice level, "Don't let your sense of duty and justice make you forget that you sometimes need help. If you're hurting, if this has been going on a long time—just recognize that sometimes it's your duty to take care of yourself first."

Steve sighs. It's quiet again, and this time, the silence lasts for a while. For a long while. Neither Steve nor Sam looks the other in the eye. Neither makes an effort to say anything. They both realize that they need time to compose themselves. They both need time to warm up to ideas, for their emotions to cool. 

"Alright. Alright," Steve says, his tone conciliatory and—surprisingly, even to himself—full of exhaustion. Sam looks up at him carefully. He's holding his coffee in both hands, as a warm little tether to keep him from going tense. "Professional opinion, then. What do you think I need?"

"I'm not here in a professional capacity. But for starters, I think you need to open up more. To your friends. And—also—to a specialist who could help you. We can only do so much for you, Steve," Sam says, leaning back. "And along with that, I think you need to do things. Not for other people. Not because you have to. For you. You need—I dunno, a hobby."

A hobby. Steve turns the idea over in his mind. There's nothing _wrong_ with getting a hobby. It sure as hell wouldn't hurt.

"Yeah. Okay. Alright. I guess I can take up a hobby," Steve replies.

Sam hums, voice intentionally level. "So is that a no to the therapy thing?"

"I—I had to go to therapy for a while, right after they unfroze me. Stopped going after a while, since I didn't think it was for me. But I'll check back on that. See if there's anyone they referred me to who didn't turn out to be a secret sleeper agent," Steve replies, suddenly feeling the full weight of exhaustion on him at once.

"Well. That's a start. And I know some good people here in the city, if S.H.I.E.L.D.'s people don't work out for you,” Sam says, relief bleeding into that professionally kind tone. “But for now, let's look at getting you set up with a hobby. So. What do you like to do?"

And isn't that the million-dollar question.

"Guh—I dunno," Steve says, feeling like he'd been blindsided. He rubs his face with his hand. "I mean. I like to box. I like to run. I like being active. Those are hobbies, right?"

"Okay, no. Not just because I know you're going to _literally_ run me into the ground," Sam says, and there's a little smile there. It's tight. Their conversation is still underpinned by deathly seriousness, after all. But it's there. "But because you need an outlet outside of that, as much as I know you like to do those things. You need something entirely positive. Something that you haven't used to wear yourself to exhaustion before. Something that won't run the risk of being—"

"Destructive?" Steve asks, self-depreciating, in classic Steve Rogers style.

"—I was gonna say _over the top_ ," Sam says, "But that works, too."

Steve snorts, a little huff of a laugh. It's nothing like the comfortable bark of a full-body laugh from earlier, but it eases their conversation's tension, still. Sam, in spite of himself, in spite of how serious he's trying to be, smiles too.

"I'm serious, though. You need _your own_ hobby, Steve. Something outside of being Cap. Something where you take care of _you._ And _don't_ tell me working out isn't just another way to push yourself into exhaustion, because you and I both know it's true."

"I—okay. Fine,“ Steve starts. He sighs, chewing his lip. “I mean. I guess I like to paint?"

The fact that Steve was an artist, once, wasn't included in most history textbooks. Most people didn't even pay attention to it. From what Steve could tell, historians saw it as more of a "fun fact" than anything of any sort of real importance, as important as it was to him.

But it wasn't unknown. There was even a little section about his art in the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian, wedged between a recreation of his first apartment and an exhibit about his childhood.

Somehow still, it feels silly to admit, like repeating his wildest, most impossible childhood dreams. Steve might as well be saying that he wishes he'd grown up to be a dragon or a Rockefeller, with how ridiculous he feels. Somehow, admitting he was superhuman had become easier than admitting he was an artist.

Sam doesn't seem to see it that way. He just nods, seemingly taking Steve's reply completely seriously.

"See, that's good. Now we're getting somewhere. What do you like to paint? Landscapes, people, abstract stuff?"

"Well—everything, I guess," Steve replies, ducking his head. "I mean. I wanted to be a famous painter, a long time ago. Did everything I could to save up to go to art school. Painted signs, taught lessons to rich ladies uptown, did little sketches in the park for change when the weather was nice and I wasn't sick, you name it. And then the war happened, and well. You know how that goes."

"So no art since before the war?" Sam asks, and his curiosity is completely earnest. Steve shakes his head.

"Not really. I mean—I bought a sketchbook, just as a thing to do, but. Haven't even filled two pages of it."

Sam pats him on the shoulder and smiles. "In that case—maybe it's time you start."

"Yeah," Steve says, feeling a little less heavy and a little more hopeful at the same time, "Maybe it is."

**\---**

_Starting_ again hit a snag very early on, because as it turned out, Sam knew next to _nothing_ about art supplies. 

His intentions were good. His heart was in the right place, and he'd done his best. But while Sam’s never-ending knowledge of music extended up to knowing the ins and outs of most instruments, even Steve knew, with his limited knowledge of art in the twenty-first century, that the paint that Sam showed him on their Target run wasn't going to cut it.

Which is how they end up at the Blick store on a sunny Friday afternoon, shuffling through the aisles and dodging tired-looking art school students who were desperately looking for last-minute supplies for their final projects.

It almost makes Steve jealous.

"Seriously?" Sam hisses quietly, as Steve picks out his brushes, "$23.99 for one brush? I can buy like, four packs of brushes for the same price at Target."

"You're complaining to the guy who grew up during the _Depression,_ " Steve says, "Don't think these prices ain't hurting me. But if I'm gonna want them to last, I gotta get stuff that's quality. You know?"

Sam huffs. "I know like, in theory, you're right, but this little thing of paint is almost _thirty dollars._ "

Steve hums in response and goes back to looking at brushes.

Art supply stores, Steve concludes, are their own sort of gift; sanctuaries with fluorescent lights. He feels both curious and content in the Blick store. If it weren't for residual guilt from spending so much on things so unnecessary to survive, Steve would have bought a little bit of everything so he could try everything.

But that guilt was powerful to a guy who grew up sick and poor during the worst financial crisis in all of modern history.

When they go to ring out, Steve ends up spending what would have been several months' rent worth on art supplies. As far as art supplies goes, he knows he's not getting off bad. But it's still a lot. It still earns a little pained noise when the cashier rattles off his total. He doesn’t even look at the screen when he slides his card through the machine.

“You good?” Sam asks, once they’re outside of the store, having said their thank-yous and posed for the obligatory _I can’t believe I rang up Captain America and the Falcon_ selfie. He has a small bag hooked around his elbow and carries some of the larger, lightweight supplies at odd angles, clearly trying to figure out the best way to make their trek home. 

“Maybe,” Steve sighs, trying to think about things other than how much he spent, before the guilt begins to bubble up in his stomach again. Instead, he forces himself to think about the act of making art again. He tries to remember back to the old days, when he wore his charcoals down to dust and when art school was a vague and attainable _almost._ He remembers how happy he was to _create,_ even when he was painting signs, even when he was drawing dirty comics.

He thinks that maybe, he can be that happy again.

Sure, he still hurts now. And sure, the amount of money he spent was unprecedented. But he has a hobby now, a hobby that made him so _happy_ before. It might not be his livelihood, but he has something now, when the ache cuts too deep and the world is too loud and bright.

And that's a win, if there ever were one.

"So," Sam says eventually, as they wait for the next train, having somehow maneuvered through the turnstiles with two medium-sized canvases in tow. His handle on them is still awkward, but he seems to have accepted it, and his voice is light. "You gonna paint me like one of your French girls?"

"Still haven't seen that movie," Steve says, grinning smugly when Sam groans and goes into a speech about _cinematic masterpieces_.

**\---**

It isn't until he starts blocking time only to make art that Steve fully realizes how much he's missed it.

His daily routine expanded. He runs in the mornings and gets breakfast on the way home. He listens to WNYC. He reports to Avengers Tower whenever he's called. And now, he paints, whenever he has the energy, taking an hour of the day just to _create_.

He's still sad. He's still lonely. He still misses his own time, his own world, and the people he accidentally left behind seventy years ago. But at the very least, he's got something to channel that frustration and loneliness into. At least he has a way to get it out that doesn't leave his knuckles bruised and his lungs burning.

Sam was right. He was doing better, marginally so, now that he picked up a hobby.

Therapy, he was still building up the courage to call about. He couldn't even _think_ about the courage it would take to start going. Not yet. That would be in time.

But painting again, drawing again, _making_ again—that, at least, Steve could do.

**\---**

"What do you know about Instagram?" Steve asks. It’s three and a half weeks after his first visit to the Blick store. They're in her apartment, going over paperwork from their last mission over red wine and greasy Chinese food. Natasha turns to him, slowly, as if she was still processing what she heard.

"Why do you want to know?" she asks, innocently, but not without hesitation. "You don't seem like an Instagram sort of celebrity."

"I was painting in the park today, and some other artists saw. They really liked my stuff. Didn't even realize I was Captain America until about five minutes into talking to me," Steve says, "Said I should post on Instagram. Show off what I can do."

Natasha considers the idea for a second. She tilts her head upwards and to the right, gazing at a spot of nothingness in the upper right-hand corner of the room. She was considering the options, playing out the best and worst scenarios all the way through.

"You can," is what she settles on, eventually, "But you need to be careful about it. It's not all cat videos and Wikipedia out there."

"I wasn't under the impression it was," Steve replies, immediately realizing how foolishly self-confident he sounded as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "But I—I don't think I can do this without some help. From you."

She preens a little at that.

"Okay. Since you're coming to me here, in my home, on bended knee, I think I'll help you, Rogers," she says, holding out her hand. "Give me your phone."

Steve does so, tentatively. "Don't—don't do anything weird to it."

"I'm not, I'm not," Natasha dismisses, settling her phone next to his, "Just making sure it's secure. Then we can make your account."

He doesn’t understand what she does, quickly tapping away and pulling up a screen full of strange text. She’s smart as hell and clearly knows what she’s doing, and he doesn’t question her—but it would be nice to know what was happening. Almost as quickly as she started, Natasha is finishing up, re-pocketing her own phone and pulling away from the lines of strange, cryptic code on Steve’s.

" _And_ there," she says, though she doesn’t hand it back to him. She restarts the device, and when the screen hums back to life, after the familiar Stark Industries logo, a new logo pops up, if only briefly: a smiling cartoon of a redheaded girl, her hair pulled back into a tight ballerina bun. His phone is protected now, tirelessly guarded by cartoon Natasha herself. "Safe and sound. Just don't follow any suspicious links or give your passwords and location to anyone."

“So I’m on Instagram now?” Steve asks. Natasha shakes her head.

“Installing it as we speak,” she says, “What do you want your username to be?”

“Uh—I dunno,“ Steve says. He hadn’t quite thought that far. “How about something simple? Maybe—I dunno. Just my initials. That’s good enough, right?”

“Good _enough,_ ” Natasha says, her voice flat. Steve can’t tell if she’s joking. He hardly ever can when it comes to these things. She finishes typing with a little flourish, handing Steve’s phone back to him with a newly-created Instagram profile page.

His profile is completely blank, but it brims with promise. There isn’t even a description there; just a placeholder for a profile image and Steve’s lonely username. _sgr_art,_ simple enough for what Steve was wanting to do.

“Oh,” he says, “Neat.”

“Fill out your profile. Just a few words about yourself and what you want to do. A mission statement. Then we put your art on there,” Natasha says, leaning in close and guiding Steve as he taps away on a concise little bio. “Oh, and don’t use your real name.”

“Not even just Steve?” he asks. She shakes her head. “Why not?”

“Just trust me. It’s an extra layer of safety. No one really uses their real names on anything anymore, anyway.”

He shrugs and fills his name in as _Grant_. It’s not like anyone would be any wiser, anyway.

> **_Grant_ **
> 
> _Part-time illustrator. Brooklyn, NYC._

He re-reads that two-line bio. It feels distant, impersonal, and as much as Natasha made a point to be careful what he shares, Steve is uncomfortable with how robotic it feels. He shakes his head and goes back to edit it, deleting and revising the offending characters quickly.

> **_Grant_ **
> 
> _Part-time illustrator, getting back in the game. Big fan of the Dodgers, coffee, and art history. Just a kid from Brooklyn._

That feels better. More like he’s a person—more like there’s a personality behind the screen. Steve looks to Natasha, and she nods.

“Getting the hang of it already,” she says, proudly, “Next thing you know, you’ll be selling watches and fancy juices and little leggings.”

“What?” Steve asks, and Natasha shakes her head, smiling at her own joke.

“Nothing, nothing. It’s a—you wouldn’t get it. Instagram thing,” she says. Steve thinks to ask more, but she pivots quickly. Almost as quick as Steve. “Post your first picture. Then I can teach you the ancient art of the hashtag.”

“Right, right. First picture,” Steve says, letting out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Not a selfie though, right?”

“Absolutely not,” Natasha says, swilling her wine about.

“Okay. Art. Not a selfie. Right,” Steve says, and it sounds so _stupid_ , now that he thinks about it. He swipes through his photos, looking for his favorite piece he’s made in those short weeks re-discovering his flow; it’s the artistic equivalent of trying to put his best foot forward while painfully underdressed. Almost everything is unfinished or just _dull—_ bowls of fruit, landscapes of the park, skylines. Just as he’s about to give up, he finds something promising: a sketch, messy and loose, but full of emotion and a good preview of his real work.

And the fact that it’s of Peggy doesn’t hurt.

“This one,” Steve says, tapping on the photo, the sketch of Peggy coming into full view, “This is the one I wanna post.”

“You sure?” Natasha asks, in that usual level tone of hers.

“Yeah,” Steve says, more of reassurance for him than for her, “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here it is. the cap!steve/hot librarian, civilian!bucky AU that no one asked for, but i wanted to write, anyway. 
> 
> i wanted to wait until i was completely finished with this fic before i started posting, but because grad school is going to be hell on wheels this semester, and i probably won't have time to do much writing outside of papers, i decided to get to a point that i can start posting what i have done and then work on future chapters in my off time. 
> 
> a few important things (this is going to be long, since it's the first chapter, but bear with me):
> 
> \- first and foremost, i want to give a shoutout to [emily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier), my writing partner and amazing, fantastic friend. this literally would not have happened without her, and it is just as much her baby as it is mine. thank you for all the support, for putting up with my nonsense, for being there for me both when i'm wrecked about grad school and when i'm wrecked over how thiqué sebastian stan is, and for being just generally great. thank you, thank you, thank you. for everything. 
> 
> \- this isn't my first attempt at writing a multi-chapter fic, but this is the first one of this size and scale. that said, because of above grad school nonsense, this fic won't have a set posting schedule. i don't want to make promises i can't keep, but i'll try my best to update fairly frequently.
> 
> \- this entire chapter went unbeta'd, and just for time's sake, i'm keeping it that way. that might change, but for the time being, i think it's best to fly solo.
> 
> \- again, no promises or anything, but this fic will _probably_ end up in the 15-20+ chapter range. just. heads-up. 
> 
> \- the rating of this fic will change in the future, and i will be adding tags. be mindful of the changes that follow in upcoming updates. 
> 
> \- you can message me (about this fic, about your own local hot librarian, about beefy bucky's powerful thighs, etc.) on [tumblr](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/).
> 
> thanks for reading, everyone, and i hope that you will enjoy this fic as much as i enjoy writing/thinking about it.
> 
> bucky shows up in the next chapter, i promise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the arrival of bucky barnes (not with a bang, but a whimper).

In true twenty-first century fashion, Steve's first friend outside of the Avengers, outside of super-spies and monsters and friendly old men, is an internet friend.

He does the Instagram thing for a about two and a half months, gaining a fair amount of followers within that short time. Steve's not by any means at _Instagram famous_ levels—even he knows that he won't be getting that status any time soon, especially incognito. But it's a fair amount of followers, about two-hundred people, by Steve's count, not including all the bot and spam accounts.

Despite his good handful of followers, though, Steve hardly got regulars. It was rare to get anything close to a stream of likes. And he never, ever got feedback.

So he notices when one day, @imjamesbarnes starts liking everything he posts.

And he _definitely_ notices when he gets a notification saying: _@imjamesbarnes commented on your post._

Faced with the a wholly new frontier in social media interaction, Steve does the only thing he _can_ do.

He calls Nat.

"Morning, Rogers," Natasha says, at 12:42 in the afternoon.

"Natasha. Are you busy?" he asks, already putting on his shoes.

"Mm. Depends. You going to be feeding me?"

Steve sighs. "If that's what I've gotta do."

"Great," Natasha says, "I'll meet you at the fish taco place I like in an hour and a half."

 _The fish taco place she likes_ is in Manhattan, a short walk for Natasha, but a long walk and subway ride away for Steve. When he finally meets Natasha, an hour and a half later exactly, she's seated on the terrace, wearing an outlandishly large, floppy hat, with a pink drink and two menus in front of her.

"Oh, good, you're here," she says, not a care in the world. As if he wasn't entirely panicked on the phone. "Did you know they started selling grapefruit margaritas here?"

"I can see," Steve says, sinking into the empty seat across from her.

"So," she says, "What's ailing you, Steve? They finally cancel reruns of _I Love Lucy_?"

"You know that was way after my time," Steve sighs. Getting to the taco place was hardly a workout, but when he speaks, he feels exhausted.  "No, it's Instagram, Nat. Instagram."

"Mmm. So what about it?" She asks, taking a teensy sip of her fluffy pink day-drink.

"Well, I—" Steve starts, when he sees the waiter coming. He all but hides behind his menu, still overwhelmed by _@imjamesbarnes_ _commented on your post._ Natasha orders for him, he notices through his swimming thoughts. For a second, he's distracted from his Instagram troubles, instead, wondering if she remembered how much an equivalent meal for him would be. The waiter takes his flimsy paper-and-plastic shield from him, and Steve tries to look friendly.

"Don't worry," Natasha says when the waiter leaves, "I ordered you like, four of the number threes. That's practically ordering catering."

"Oh. Okay, good," Steve says, feeling less than relieved. There goes that distraction.

"So, Instagram. What's up with it?" Natasha asks, going straight to the throat. Just like she does. She's not one for niceties, that one, and as much as he appreciates it in the field, it's moments like these when Steve is less than grateful for it.

"I—here," Steve says, pulling out his phone and going straight to Instagram, "It's weird, is this what people usually do? Is this person stalking me? Is this normal? What do I do here, Nat? They're just—there, suddenly."

She takes his phone, tapping around and skimming through his activity. She looks nonplussed, but she was hardly ruffled by _anything._ After a few seconds, she puts his phone back on the table, angled so they can both see the screen.

"It's not unusual. But it's not _nothing,_ " she says, resting her chin in her free hand, "Let's see who this stranger is, shall we?"

Steve swallows, nodding. Natasha taps on @imjamesbarnes's user picture—what Steve recognized as the Library of Congress, and in the foreground, a small figure, brown-haired and angled away from the camera—leading to their full profile. It doesn't look like any fake accounts Steve has seen before. There are pictures, multiple ones, that aren't LINK IN BIO or grainy, half-nude selfies that don't match the user image. No face, nothing identifiable, but real, consistent photos all the same.

"What's the bio say?" Natasha asks. She doesn't seem too bothered by anything. But she's Steve's Vergil to his Dante on this internet journey—she's probably seen the worst of it.

"Uh," Steve says, almost embarrassed to read it, but he repeats the profile word-for-word, anyway:

> _“ **James Barnes**_
> 
> _Bucky, if you're nasty. Curator of books, mid-century illustrations, and the @martinelli_pl social media accounts. Brooklyn, NYC.”_

"Not a bot," Natasha says, as she continues to scroll.

"He's—he's a not a bot," Steve agrees, tentatively.

She levels a look to him. "And his message to you is—?"

"I haven't looked at it yet,” Steve admits. “Did you read it?"

"Only saw it exists," Natasha replies coolly, "Didn't read it yet."

He eyes her carefully. She’s lying. It isn’t Natasha to have information in front of her and not read it.

"Okay," Steve says with a sigh, "Let me—let's read it."

He stares down the offending message, and it's so benign, now that he's actually reading it, that he feels embarrassed for all the theatrics. Was really _that_ afraid of branching out and embracing being a young adult in a new century? Steve was starting to see where his friends' concern was.

"Sent two hours ago: _Great sketch! Really love your style. I can see echoes of Leyendecker, especially in this._ Followed by a grinning face. _"_

"And? What do you think?" Natasha asks.

"I mean—Leyendecker was one of my big influences when I was first starting."

She blinks. It seems like she’s trying to say something, without quite _saying something._ "So—good?"

"Yeah. It's a big compliment," Steve says, "I always loved Leyendecker’s lines and the way that he portrayed emotions and dramatics. What this—this Bucky guy said, it's real nice. Real encouraging. 'Specially since this one was just a quick thing."

"Good," Natasha said, "I think you have a fan."

"But this isn't—weird? This feels really sudden,” Steve says, “Kind of. I dunno, intense?”

"Steve," Natasha says, circling her straw around her margarita, and there she is, using her _letting you down easy_ voice. At least she’s being honest. "The entire _internet_ is weird. Usually, when someone likes another person’s entire Instagram, they send a dick pic afterward, not genuine artistic commentary. You're getting off good if this is the worst thing that happens to you. Pardon the expression.”

This gets a smile out of Steve. It’s a chagrined smile, but it’s a smile, still.

"So what do I do?" he asks her, feeling less panicked, but no less unsure.

"Thank him. Talk to him. Or ignore him. It's up to you," she says, taking a little bit of margarita in her mouth with the straw, like it's a pipette, "Who knows. Maybe this'll be the end of it and he'll follow your account in silence. Maybe you'll make a friend, or at the very least, someone you can talk art with. But like I said, it's up to you."

Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging. He feels overwhelmed and overexhausted. It was one thing putting his art on the internet, it was another thing trying to parse the minefield that was interpersonal relationships in the twenty-first century.

"Look, at the risk of being _that girl_ , Steve, isn't this exactly what you wanted?" Natasha asks, "You wanted your art to get attention. And now you're getting attention. _Good_ attention. So what's the problem?"

"I don't—I just," Steve says, "I dunno. I guess I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t wanna fuck it up."

“That’s all of us. _No one_ gets it, Steve. You’ve just got a different learning curve because you’re a grandpa,” Natasha says seriously, though not without kindness. There was care there, though it wasn’t obvious—one just had to know where to look. “Again. This entire Instagram project and how involved or distant you are from any one internet rando? It’s up to you. Do what feels right to you.”

“Alright,” Steve says, “Alright. Thank you, Natasha.”

 “You’re the one buying lunch,” she says with a shrug, a _you’re welcome_ without saying as much. He smiles at her and she sips at the remnants of her grapefruit margarita loudly. It’s a silent understanding, unspoken appreciation and encouragement, respectively.

It’s not much by any means. But it’s more than Steve could have asked for.

**\---**

After his admittedly overblown moment of social media-induced panic, lunch with Natasha is business as usual. They catch up briefly, Natasha having just come back from an intel mission in Georgia— _the country, not the state Atlanta’s in, Rogers_ , she clarifies with a little snort, _As if either would surprise me anymore._ It’s all shop talk and S.H.I.E.L.D. gossip between the two of them, neither of them bringing up anything Sam and Steve talked about in the _Talk_ they had almost three months prior. When they part, they hug briefly—though neither of them the hugging type. As she pulls away, Natasha meets Steve’s gaze, lowering her head very, very seriously.

“Remember what I said, Rogers,” she says, seriously.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he says, “Thanks, Tasha.”

She nods. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ve got to go. Need to check up on Clint, make sure Bed-Stuy’s still standing.”

“Oh boy,” Steve laughs, “Good luck.”

Natasha nods once as a goodbye and takes off, disappearing into the mid-afternoon crowd in a blink. Steve watches the crowd, searching for a familiar shock of red and finding none.

Natasha never _did_ go off the job.

Pulling his hoodie up, Steve catches the next train, ready to go home. As it pulls away from the station, Steve leans back in that garish orange subway seat, staring at @imjamesbarnes’ comment, at that innocuous little thing that caused so much concern. He feels like an idiot, now that Natasha talked him down from his panic. Even still, he finds himself hesitating, unsure as to how to respond.

 _Do what feels right,_ is what Natasha told him, which, usually, for Steve, would not be a problem. In the field, this would not be a problem. Steve was used to running into firefights without plans, surviving entirely through a combination of his gut and dumb luck. It was his historical legacy. One of them.

But when it came to interacting with other people—when it came to _social media_ —Steve wasn’t sure about _what felt right._ He was totally lost.

The train nears Steve’s stop, and he sets an ultimatum for himself: he has to decide how, if at all, he will decide to respond before the doors open. He can side-step the comment, or he can face it head-on, but somehow, he had to move forward.

Other passengers begin readying themselves for the train doors to open, bracing themselves for the familiar lurch and whiplash of the train coming to a stop. Steve takes a deep breath in, exhaling once the train settles, and _likes_ the comment.

Moving forward it was.

Steve taps out his reply, then and there, almost missing his stop because of it. As he rushes to beat the doors, Steve’s anxiety has mutated into something complex; a Frankenstein’s monster hodgepodge of regret, anxiety, and excitement. He was fully in new, uncharted waters now. He replied to a stranger on the internet, under his new persona, not to argue about politics or semantics or mis-remembered history, but to talk about himself—to be honest and open for vulnerabilities, in one way or another.

He took the next step.

The reply that Steve left was simple, a thank you, followed by a repeat of what he told Natasha. It was neutral enough, open to interpretation as friendly or distant, and easy to take in either direction, if things went beyond that thread. Steve posts the reply as soon as he’s out of the station, and as soon as he does, he pockets his phone. He doesn’t want to overthink it more than he already has. When he gets back to his apartment, his phone chimes, a single notification across his lock screen:  

> _@imjamesbarnes liked your comment._

**\---**

For a while, that single notification is the end of it. _@imjamesbarnes_ doesn’t write back in response to Steve’s comment. After a day of no response, for all the anxiety it left him with earlier, the comment all but slips Steve’s mind. All goes back to silent equilibrium.

It’s only when Steve posts another picture of Peggy on Instagram—the full, finished painting to accompany the sketch that was his first post—that _@imjamesbarnes_ shows up again.

> _@imjamesbarnes: Peggy Carter was one badass woman. You capture a fierceness and capable-ness in this really well_

Steve swallows hard as he reads that comment. The thing is, something happened while he had been asleep. People began to forget how much of a powerhouse Peggy was. People were beginning to forget that she was the person that made Steve the legend he was. Fierce and capable didn’t even begin to cover it.

Seeing someone finally giving Peggy something _close_ to the credit she deserved completely made Steve’s week. This @imjamesbarnes guy—he was alright.

Steve doesn’t call Natasha this time. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t shut down. Instead, he _likes_ the comment and taps out a reply, careful not to be overly sentimental while he gushes all over the comments.

> _@sgr_art: @imjamesbarnes, Thank you so much! Peggy Carter is one of the biggest influences of my life…I’m glad I got her incredible personality and history across. Seriously, thank you. It means a lot. :)_

He rereads Bucky’s comment, smiling to himself. Whoever this @imjamesbarnes guy was, he had to be a good guy. Anyone who went out of his way to give Peggy the credit she deserved _had_ to be. Before he knows it, Steve is on @imjamesbarnes’ profile again, for the first time since the first comment.

It’s a lot of pictures of coffee. A _lot_ of pictures of coffee. But between the pictures of coffee are colorful stacks of books, each with a loving write-up about each title, and, as promised in his bio, mid-century illustrations. Most of the illustrations are from children’s books and pulp novels. Steve doesn’t recognize most of the pulp novel illustrations—the author’s name, A. C. Martin Ellis, doesn’t ring a bell—but he likes most of them, anyway. They’re all dime-store crime and spy novels, but the illustrations are always dynamic, and with their hard-boiled female leads, he has a feeling he would like them.

 _Peggy_ would have liked them, at the very least.

More than the pulp covers, it’s the children’s book illustrations that Steve recognizes. _The Wizard of Oz. Winnie-The-Pooh. The Velveteen Rabbit._ Tucked between the crime books and coffee shots, Bucky has posted photos of those illustrations, all early printings of the books and true to the original formats, formats Steve would recognize.

It was a good day for memory already, with his painting of Peggy now finished. But after seeing those illustrations those icons of his childhood, nostalgia hits Steve at full force. Before he knows it, he’s deep in the bowels of Bucky’s Instagram, having _liked_ almost a third of it. It’s only when he reaches the end that Steve realizes what he’s done—the exact same thing that Bucky did, except _significantly_ creepier. Bucky had a _lot more_ pictures than Steve had, and Steve might not have _liked_ all of them, but he _liked_ a lot.

He considers telling Natasha. They could have a good laugh about it. They could talk about how maybe, somewhere in another part of Brooklyn, Bucky was having the same sort of reaction that Steve had earlier.

Ultimately, Steve decides against it. He’d dwelled on Instagram more than enough for one day. With a big stretch, Steve locks his phone, having decided now would be a good time to go for a long, long run—but not before scrolling up to the top of @imjamesbarnes’ profile and quickly, before he can overthink it, pressing _Follow_.

That way, they’re even.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so originally, chapter two was much, much longer, but i divided it in half, and then i took the first half and divided it in half again. that first third of the "full" version of chapter two is what we have here.
> 
> a few things:
> 
> \- a lot of people headcanon steve's art style as similar to jack kirby, but in my head, steve's art style in this fic is very, very similar to [j.c. leyendecker's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._C._Leyendecker). i imagine if he never got the serum, steve would have had a major rivalry with norman rockwell because of how he portrayed americana.
> 
> \- initially, @imjamesbarnes was just a placeholder handle, until i realized that bucky _absolutely_ would have an instagram handle like sebastian stan. they share that sense of humor in that way, imo. 
> 
> \- steve and natasha totally could have gone to brooklyn together and just parted ways when they were actually out of manhattan, i'm pretty sure.
> 
> \- this chapter might have also been plotted out and started on during a sex and the city binge. cannot confirm nor deny.
> 
> \- as always, feel free to talk to me on here or [on tumblr](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first contact.

If there’s one thing that Steve quickly learns in his time following @imjamesbarnes on Instagram, it's this: _James Barnes contains multitudes._

It’s an unseasonably nice Saturday afternoon, and the easing heat of the late-summer sun motivates Steve to set foundations for the long haul. To make _plans_. Steve Rogers, tucked into a familiar park nook on an unseasonably nice Saturday afternoon, is working on a _project._

A Veteran’s Day project, to be exact. From his heart. One half tribute, one half catharsis.

The sketch starts off smoothly, lines coming quick and easy, shapes and faces quickly taking form. He’s done drafts of this painting before, on napkins, in pages of notes. It feels good to finally give it the adequate due it deserves. The soft scratch of pencil against canvas, the birds in the trees, and the muted, familiar sounds of the city—Steve at ease. Heaven might still be a far-off goal for him, but if a warm, sunny day in a city park is Limbo, Steve likes it just fine. 

Or, he would. Making the jump from broad strokes and loose lines to detail is where the ease begins to fade. It’s when Steve starts to refine the sketch that he, almost immediately, hits a wall.

“This isn’t working,” Steve groans, mostly to himself. Nearby, an old man playing chess—a sometimes-friend, someone who understands what it was like to miss the old days without romanticizing the _Old Days—_ looks over at him, sympathetically.

“If your art thing’s not working out, you should come and play a game,” he offers.

“No thanks, Arnie,” Steve says, slumping against a nearby tree. He pulls his phone out, sighing, looking for some sort of distraction. Something to get his brain and hands working together again.

“The radiation coming off of those will fry your brain,” says Arnie’s regular chess partner, staring intently at the board in front of him.

Steve nods, humoring the guy. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Don’t listen to him,” says Arnie, seriously. Then, he adds, with a laugh, “He’s just mad that he’s losing.”

Arnie’s partner curses, low and under his breath, and Arnie just watches him, waiting for him to take his turn. Steve sighs, turning away from the two old men to flick through his Instagram feed.

Steve scrolls through a deluge of coffees and pastries; it’s no surprise, considering his follow list is comprised almost entirely his favorite breakfast places. The beginning murmurs of hunger stir in the pit of his stomach, and he considers getting a falafel before heading home. Scrolling idly, Steve almost misses @imjamesbarnes—but stops, as if on instinct, once catching a glimpse of that familiar user icon.

He's posted another pulp cover, this one, an installment of some bizarre science fiction-erotica-political thriller series, if the title, _MAN ON THE WALL_ : _A SACRED REZNOR TITLE_ were any indication. The main character is embracing a blue, scantily-clad, busty alien, one hand on her waist. In his other hand is a small, odd-looking handgun.

> @imjamesbarnes: _ASTRONAUT COWBOY JAMES BOND IS CLEARLY SO MAN, THE SPACE TITTIES BORE HIM. MUST BE NICE. WOW_ #covershot #pulp #scifi #aliens #bookstagram #realvintage #martinellipubliclibrary

Steve finds himself chuckling at the absurdity of the drawing, the concept, the fact that there’s not only a whole _novel,_ but a whole _series_ starring the characters in front of him. It’s all brought together with the snarky, self-depreciating caption accompanying the scene. He _likes_ the post almost immediately, continuing to giggle to himself.

“Feeling better, Steve?” Arnie jokes, raising an eyebrow at him. His chess partner, still deep in thought, doesn’t look up. Instagram is clearly beneath him when winning is so within reach.

“Little bit,” Steve says, but he’s smiling, still. “Yeah. A little bit.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Arnie says. He moves a chess piece, and his partner huffs. “You should share whatever funny thing you saw with my friend over here. He seems he could use it.”

“Nah, I’ve gotta head back. Besides, don’t wanna _fry his brains,_ ‘specially if he’s losing as bad as it looks,” Steve jokes, as he begins to pack up his things for the day. “See you next week, fellas.”

With a wave, Steve gathers up his things and makes his leave. It was time to go. He’s getting hungry, the weather is starting to change, and besides—he doesn’t know how to _begin_ to explain the objective humor of the phrase, _THE SPACE TITTIES._

**\---**

They follow each other in mutual silence for a while, only interacting through an exchange of _likes_ and the occasional short, earnest exchange on one of Steve’s sketches and detatched progress shots. @imjamesbarnes— _Bucky_ , Steve has to remember his name is—posts his coffee shots, bookshelf picks, and sometimes-serious, mostly-exasperated commentary on pulp novel covers. He’s funny in a dry, absurd sort of way. Steve appreciates his presence. He appreciates that Bucky is there.

As Natasha predicted, not much changes. Not yet.

**\---**

After more than five years out of the ice, Manhattan has quickly become familiar territory for Steve. He wouldn’t have expected it, not when he was growing up young and poor in a very, very different New York City. The city still isn’t home for him, especially not in the twenty-first century, but he can say he doesn’t feel like a tourist anymore.

It’s a busy morning in Manhattan, with dense, workday crowds getting more and more congested as he nears Avengers Tower. Steve’s needed for their weekly intel briefing, set to start in an hour. He always arrives early, to get a run-down on everything before the rest of the team. It’s just one of his many duties as their _stalwart leader._

On intel days, the second Steve is in the building, he runs on autopilot. Completely engrossed in his phone, Steve is almost to the elevator when Bucky’s new post jerks him out of his weekday haze—he literally stops in his tracks.

It’s a photo of an old illustration from an old, old fairy tale—the heroine of the story, Gerda, on a journey to save her friend, sits barefoot in the snow, nothing but the dark of night behind her. In front her is a raven, hopping towards her, and she beckons to it, her hand outstretched and expression kind.

Steve has to blink a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it; that he isn’t so hyperfocused on getting to his meeting that he’s hallucinating an illustration from a century ago. When he’s still not convinced, he slides his thumb down, focusing on Bucky’s caption, instead.

> _@imjamesbarnes: W. Heath Robinson for Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales, printed in 1913. This is a contemporary printing (in moderate shape), but you can pick up reprints with the original illustrations online. One of my favorites. :) #realvintage #bookstagram #illustrations #martinellipubliclibrary_

It isn’t that the illustration was particularly different or stunning or groundbreaking, though it was good. And it isn’t that the illustration was particularly unusual. Anything from _THE_ _SACRED REZNOR_ series had this fairy tale illustration beat.

It’s that Steve remembers the illustration. He remembers it _personally_. He remembers every line of it, every dot. He remembers the book it’s printed in, the copy he never wanted to return. He remembers every crease in the spine, every dog-eared page. He even remembers the librarian who took a liking to him, who never said anything about late fees, even when he kept the book months after it was due.

It’s strange, how much one image from one account can make Steve _feel_ so much. For the first time, Steve feels compelled to leave Bucky a comment.

> _@sgr_art: I remember having a book with these illustrations when I was a kid! This takes me way back. The Snow Queen illustration is one of my favorites, too. You have good taste._

Sending a comment for the first time feels odd and unfamiliar, and Steve, if just for a second, questions if it’s the right thing to do. The anxiety of the situation at hand—at reaching out, at trying to make relationships with someone new, in a new way—is there. But it’s nowhere near the same level as when Bucky first followed him.

Steve pockets his phone once he finally makes his way to the elevator. His heart feels tender, having seen that illustration, more than a century from the last time. As he watches the city bustling outside, he feels a prickle of something bittersweet welling up in his eyes, glad, for once, for the long ride up to the restricted-access floors. When the elevator doors ding open, and he’s in a part of the tower that only Avengers are allowed in, Steve checks his phone again—just once, just briefly—and smiles at the notification on his screen:

> _@imjamesbarnes liked your comment._

**\---**

After that, things shift. Steve’s routine isn’t changed, and it’s far from upended. But it’s different. He has a distant acquaintance, a sort of surrogate closeness, where there used to be none. It’s less revolutionary and more a logical progression; the last step in a line of transition. From there, Steve comments regularly on Bucky’s posts. Never anything too personal, but it’s cordial. And Bucky, for his part, does the same. They reach a good back-and-forth, a parry, a distant camaraderie.

It’s not close. Not like Steve and Sam, not even like Steve and Natasha. But it’s something. 

**\---**

Veterans Day arrives before Steve knows it.

Captain America doesn’t get days off. Even if he did, Steve doesn’t know if he would take them. But Veterans Day is quiet, the combination of a three-day weekend and the creeping winter chill seemingly promising a moment of stillness—a moment Steve can take for himself.

Painting all day—with a pot of black coffee by his side and _All Things Considered_ droning softly in the background—feels like a natural fit. It’s second nature to him, like a return to an instinct he had so-long suppressed. He remembers his trip to the Blick store all those months ago, the way he had been so reluctant to start again, and he wonders where the hesitation came from.

That was the problem with that nebulous, anxious uncertainty and mental fog, Steve supposes—it didn’t need a _reason._ But he was working on it.

Steve posts the finished painting at 11:19 PM, far later than he had planned. There’s a subtle shine, a casualty of the paint still being wet, but it’s posted, and it’s done—A painting of the Howling Commandos, all of them, laughing and grinning at the viewer. It’s a hazy memory, but it happened. It’s real. Steve doesn’t remember what led up to it, and he doesn’t remember what came next, but he remembers the moment—the way that Morita laughed until he cried, or the way that Jones had to explain the joke to Dernier.

The likenesses aren’t flawless, and there are definitely parts of the piece that are weaker than others. But when Steve steps back and looks at the full piece, his heart feels full. He feels satisfied.

> _@sgr_art: Happy Veterans Day. #howlingcommandos #veteransday #originalart #artistsofinstagram_

With the painting posted and his comment done, Steve begins to clean up. Cleaning his brushes—watching the paint muddle up in the little soap-solution jar and fall away in big, colorful chunks—is cathartic. Almost as cathartic as the process of painting itself. Steve takes care to keep his tools tidy, carefully wiping the head of each brush clean before carefully putting them up to dry. By the time he’s finished washing his brushes and cleaning his living room, it’s a few minutes past midnight—and he has a new notification, an Instagram comment, from @imjamesbarnes.

> _@imbuckybarnes: Wow. Just wow. You know it’s like Peggy, these guys don’t get enough of the recognition they deserve. But I think putting them back in the center starts to fix that. Thanks for recognizing the people who don’t get the spotlight in history, for reasons that might not be entirely fair. It means a whole lot to a whole lotta people. Happy Veterans Day_

And as if that wasn’t enough, to sign off, Bucky ended his message with a little American flag.

Somehow, this comment felt different. This comment felt like it didn’t just need to be _liked_ and responded to in the public comment thread attached to the posts of his paintings. This one, Steve felt, required something far more substantial.

Steve slides his thumb over to the paper airplane symbol, still caught in his decision. With a tap of his thumb, he’s on a page he’d only visited once before, blank and open as the day he’d made his account. Typing _@imjamesbarnes_ into the recipient box goes quickly—once Steve types the first few letters, Instagram fills out the rest. It knows who he wants to talk to. It knows exactly where this was going, even if Steve was still unsure.

It’s quicker, easier, when Steve’s past that threshold. When Steve begins writing his message, words spill out, gracious and sincere:

> _@sgr_art: Hey, thanks for the comment on my Veterans Day painting. Thanks for commenting on all of my stuff, but this one especially. I'm retired Army, so your comment means a lot to me._

He stares at the message anxiously, and quickly, without any more spiraling thought, presses send.

All he can hope is that he won't regret what he decided to do.

His phone chimes in minutes. After text conversations with Natasha that take days to get responses, and Sam’s chronic habit of dropping conversations because he forgets to text back, the quick response—from a stranger on the internet, no less—surprises Steve. It’s a welcome change.

> _@imjamesbarnes: No problem! And hey, man, I meant every word of it. I'm a veteran, too_

Steve raises his eyebrows. Wasn’t that a surprise. Not only was Bucky—a faceless stranger on the other end of the line—willing to have a conversation with Steve, but he was willing to open up about his own experiences, too. If it was some sort of bait, Steve took it, tapping out a response to Bucky as soon as he finished reading Bucky’s reply. 

> _@sgr_art: No shit? What branch were you?_
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: Army_

The message he gets back is followed by a flexing bicep emoji. Steve grins. Bucky had personality, and Steve found himself charmed, letting the walls he was so careful to build up come down. Not entirely. Not even by any significant margin. He had to be careful, after all. He couldn’t trust just anyone. But the walls came down by a few feet, at least. 

He types up his next reply just as quickly as he had typed up his previous one, just barely pausing to question if this conversation could be considered oversharing, before pressing send.

> _@sgr_art: Nice! What'd you do?_

The response doesn't arrive immediately. Not like the previous replies had.

Five minutes stretches into fifteen, which stretches into an hour. At the hour-fifteen mark, Steve starts to get anxious once again, worrying what he asked was inappropriate for online small talk—worrying he asked too much, violated some unspoken norm of privacy, or if it was the internet equivalent of talking about marriage on a first date.

He considers amending his message, or apologizing for prying, but decides against it. _Don’t make it awkward, Rogers,_ he hears Natasha’s voice say in the back of his mind, his shoulder-angel armed with a selfie stick.

Just as Steve is about to give up on the conversation, his phone chimes, pulling him back in.

> _@imjamesbarnes: Records, technically. I dunno, it’s hard to explain? It was a special thing, not really a standard post, I just sort of followed around some higher-level officials. Wasn't supposed to see combat, but that didn't work out lol_

Just how _open_ Bucky is surprises Steve, especially considering that they are both hardly know one another. They comment on each other’s posts, sure, but they were hardly _close._ Bucky was either very friendly, very bad at oversharing, or didn’t care.  

Whatever the reason, that openness changed something; they couldn’t be considered strangers now, not entirely, not with Bucky’s vulnerability shared between them.

> _@sgr_art: That’s awful. I'm so sorry._
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: Don't be_

This message, punctuated in the middle by a smiley face, somehow seems more intimate than Steve felt he deserved.

> _@imjamesbarnes: I knew what I was getting into. It's over now, anyway. Can’t do nothing about it now_

And ain't that the truth, Steve thinks, as he taps out a reply, careful as he can. If Bucky was going to open up to him, all but out of the blue, he deserves a careful, measured response. Anything else would be unfair. It would practically be voyeurism.

> _@sgr_art: Yeah, yeah. I understand. Believe me, there’s a ton I wish I could change. But you got to keep looking ahead, got to keep your eyes on tomorrow, like they say._
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: Damn right_
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: Well, hey, this was fun, but I gotta turn in. Work tomorrow, you know_
> 
> _@sgr_art: Oh yeah! Don't let me keep you._
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: Thanks, Grant. Really_

To punctuate his message, an emoji—eyes closed, smiling, and blushing. It looked thankful, almost.

> _@imjamesbarnes: It was great talking to you_
> 
> _@sgr_art: You too, Bucky. Have a good night._
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: You too :)_

Steve sits back, feeling an exuberant buzz in his chest and fingertips. That anxiety that racked him months ago is nowhere to be found. He talked to someone, privately, in real time. He took the next step.

A few days pass between that moment, that brief connection, and a conversation does not spring up between them again. All goes back to normal, for a while: Bucky posts a pulp cover illustration in that time—some awfully cheesy thing called, _I Was a Teenage Assassin!,_ with a quippy little caption about high school—and Steve posts more of his messy, daily sketches.

It’s not quite friendship. Not yet. But it’s something close, something approaching it.

Symbiosis.

**\---**

_Thought you’d be interested in this._

Steve, craned awkwardly to check his phone, smiles at the message. He’s dotted to the forearms in paint, so he grabs a rag and cleans up carefully before he checking his Instagram inbox.

Bucky’s message is there, but that’s not what gets his attention. What gets his attention is the photograph attached—in Bucky’s white-gloved hands is a fuzzy color photograph of one Peggy Carter, grinning wide and _alive_ with a woman Steve doesn’t recognize. They’re standing in front of the Broadway theatre, though Peggy hardly looks dressed for it—she’s wearing a white blouse tucked into navy blue trousers, and her lips are that familiar gunshot red. The photo is signed, right in the right-hand corner, and Steve can recognize Peggy’s precise handwriting like it’s his own.

> _Angie,_
> 
> _You always know how to show a girl a good time. Until our next adventure._
> 
> _With love,_
> 
> _Peggy_

It’s not until his vision starts to blur and his eyes begin to sting that Steve realizes that he was holding back tears. His heart feels like he sunk flew the Valkyrie into it; like he’s trying to make sense of the aftermath of a crash. He misses her. _Dearly_. He thinks, for the second, of the _almost_ of their lives, the path their converging destinies could have taken.

But he wouldn’t take this away from her. That smile was rare on Peggy, and he’s glad she was able to find it again. He’s glad she found joy while he was seventy feet deep in Arctic ice. He’s glad she lived a life.

Wiping eyes with the back of his hand, Steve takes a deep breath, and plots out an ever-careful reply.

> _@sgr_art: Wow. That’s real nice. This from the Martinelli?_
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: Yup_
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: It’s in one of our collections. It’s not public, not for now, but I thought I’d sneak a pic for you :)_

As if the picture wasn’t enough, Bucky went out of his way to show him something. Steve feels that joyful tenderness exposed again. When he replies, his thumbs tap away slow, deliberate, and delicate—as if tone were a thing that he could project through the screen. As if he could show Bucky, wherever in Brooklyn he was, all the thanks in the world.

> @ _sgr_art: Wow. No, I’m really touched. Really. Thank you._

There’s a pause—a lack of response from Bucky that almost echoes in its absence. Steve, suddenly, feels the need to reciprocate.

 _Want to see what I’m working on?_ Is what he eventually types out. Bucky replies within two minutes of him pressing send. Impressive, considering it’s the middle of a workday.

> _@imjamesbarnes: Hell yeah, I’d love to see what you’re doing_

Steve laughs to himself. He forgot how nice it felt to have someone he could so readily share his art with. He steps back, snapping a picture of the half-finished underpainting on his canvas.

It’s a self-portrait, though not entirely—the figure in the painting is Steve, but in the body he occupied before the serum, the one he so often forgets no longer belongs to him. In the painting, self portrait-Steve is turned away from the viewer, angled so his bony shoulder and back are clear, but his face is nowhere to be seen. In front of him is stark darkness, and in the corner of the painting, he looks very, very small.

Of all the self-portraits Steve has ever done, it’s one of his favorite yet.

> _@imjamesbarnes: Oh holy shit_
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: That’s amazing!_

Steve grins to himself, feeling his face heat with the beginnings of a blush.

> _@sgr_art: Thank you! I’ll probably finish underpainting by the end of the week._
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: :o :O :O_
> 
> _@sgr_art: You want I keep you posted?_
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: Yeah! I LOVE your art_

That last part might have been obvious, given Bucky liked almost everything he posted, but Steve still felt an immense joy at knowing he had a fan.

> _@sgr_art: Will do, then. All I ask in exchange is you keep posting bad pulp novel covers. And the classic illustrations and Peggy Carter stuff, too, but mostly the bad pulp covers._

Steve ends that with a smiley face emoji. He means it.

> _@imjamesbarnes: You like those?? I would do those for FREE. But you know, you give me an offer that good, I cant turn it down. You’ve got yourself a deal, pal_

Instead of punctuation, what Bucky sends back a string of grinning faces, a few art-related emojis, and a thumbs up or two. Steve can only keep smiling, feeling warm and soft, knowing that he doesn’t _just_ have a follower—he doesn’t even _just_ have a new fan.

He has a friend.

**\---**

The two of them quickly become close, quickly falling into a rhythm.

Bucky almost always sends a message over first, almost always a hello—through a plain good morning, through a story about work, through a bad joke. Steve, as Grant, responds in kind, sharing the ins and outs of his day that he can. It’s not much, considering the layers of secrecy and half-truths he has to apply to his life, but he shares. It would feel selfish not to.

And so, Steve’s routine expands again: wake up, run, get breakfast. Go to Manhattan, if need be. Do whatever Avenging business needs to be done. Make art, when he can. Take a walk in the park on the weekends. Joke around with Natasha and Sam, if they’re around. Talk to Bucky.

It’s not glamorous. He still has more bad days than he would like to admit. He still hesitates on the therapy situation. But he feels better. His _life_ seems better. It feels stable. It feels _right._

And as soon as Steve is used to it, as if by law of the universe, it gets upended.

Instagram, in dramatic fashion, crashes.

Not by any incompetence on the part of developers. No, this was more insidious. This crash, Steve learned, in an early-morning press conference in Avengers tower, was only part of a larger attack—a cover-up, perpetrated by the smoldering, splintered remains of Hydra.

In the public media outcry over Instagram, some Hydra goons attempted to breach private, restricted databases from several US agencies. It was barely a calculated move; it was a desperate power play, a grab at something close to greatness—the work of the zealous, dedicated few who still carried the flag of a scattered empire. They who, even with Alexander Pierce dead and exposed for his lies—wanted to continue championing Hydra’s standard operating procedure: cause chaos, instill fear, and extend a promise of security with one hand, a loaded gun in the other.

In social media spaces far removed from Steve, there is chaos. The entire internet all but has a meltdown. While celebrities and civilians alike sit on their hands, powerless to do anything but grumble, Steve leads a team to a small suburban town in the mountains of Georgia.

Hydra, under the banner of S.H.I.E.L.D., was a force that could start wars and destroy lives at the drop of a hat. This splinter group was far from that. Tony traced the origins of the attack within an hour and a half. Taking them down, putting them in custody—even with all the black-market Chitauri tech they pilfered—took half that time.

What was _really_ going to waste Steve’s night was the paperwork.

There’s a thick ream of forms on his lap, statements and legalities and things he needs to sign off on, things he can’t send to the legal office because they’re _for his eyes only._ Being the team leader had its perks, but they sure as hell weren’t _paperwork_ _in a Helicarrier._

Just as he’s through what must have been the twentieth sheet about weapons use _alone,_ one of Steve’s belt pouches chimes wildly, all his updates coming at once. He pulls his phone out, unlocking it with one hand—fingerless gloves, _so_ useful—immediately going to Instagram. Like a passenger pigeon, flying home.

In the time since the attack, Bucky sent him two messages—both sent just over an hour prior:

> _@imjamesbarnes: Well, that was something_

A string of eyeroll emojis. Steve could relate.

> _@imjamesbarnes: What’re you working on? Anything big happen in your life while the entire internet was down?_

Steve snorts.

“You wouldn’t fuckin’ believe,” he mumbles to himself.

“Excuse me?” says a voice besides him—Bruce, Steve discovers, and he shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says, laughing it off awkwardly, “I’m just, uh. Just—messaging someone.”

Bruce nods, going back to his book. Steve throws himself back into his conversation with Bucky, in part, because he doesn’t want to explain who he’s talking to. Or what he’s doing on Instagram. Not to the _entire team._

> _@sgr_art: Didn’t get to draw a single goddamn thing. Work was killer._
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: :( :( :(_
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: Bad day all around, then?_
> 
> _@sgr_art: Yeah. But it’s been worse._
> 
> _@imjamesbarnes: You’re quite the optimist, Grant_

He punctuates his message cheekily; with a little winking emoji.

> _@imjamesbarnes: Well hey, in case this happens again, here’s my number so we dont have to rely on Instagram. You never know what’s gonna happen these days, we might as well have a contingency plan :P_

And in plain text, there it is: Bucky’s cell phone number, something that could easily identify him. Something that ties him to the real world. It’s a step beyond anything they’ve been doing. It’s a step towards deeper long-distance, cyber-intimacy. Steve measures the tone of his response carefully.

> _@sgr_art: Ha. You’ve got that right. Thanks for this._
> 
> _@sgr_art: I’ll text you._

He knows he should consult Natasha on this, or at the very least, it would be a good idea to. But somehow, he doesn’t see it necessary, not with Bucky. He feels that Bucky is trustworthy—that even though he’s never met him face-to-face, he can trust him.

That he's _safe_. 

He copies the number down carefully, in the corner of some Avengers paperwork first, then into his phone. For a second, Steve considers stepping back, realizing that this is where the road diverges into two explicitly different paths. As he's typing it, Steve realizes that he could very well never send that text. He could very well come up with a viable excuse. He doesn’t _have_ to do this.

Steve presses send, anyway.

> _ME [10:09 PM]: Hey there, Sacred Reznor. Your turn now. Any space adventures you’ve got to regale for me?_

There is a pause. An indeterminate amount of time that feels like an eternity. And just as sudden as it fell down upon Steve, it passes. His phone chimes, and when he checks the notification message on his lock screen, he feels anxious—but he also feels relief.

> _UNSAVED NUMBER [10:15 PM]: Grant!_
> 
> _UNSAVED NUMBER [10:15 PM]: :O :O :D_

Steve grins, excited at Bucky’s energy. He saves Bucky’s number into his phone, entirely aware he’s solidifying their friendship several degrees further.

> _ME [10:16 PM]: That’s me._

He follows that up with a smiling emoji. It pales in comparison to the grin he’s sporting in the real world. 

> _BUCKY [10:19 PM]: Okay but actually_
> 
> _BUCKY [10:19 PM]: I do have another Sacred Reznor story for you_
> 
> _BUCKY [10:20 PM]: And lemme tell you, Grant_
> 
> _BUCKY [10:20 PM]: This one? It’s a fuckin DOOZY_

With a grin, Steve pays attention, a captivated audience if there ever were one, as Bucky goes on a long, winding spiel about his adventure in reading another title in _The Sacred Reznor_ series—twenty-page, angsty, blue alien sex scene and all. After that, they keep talking—about their lives, about little pleasures and everyday annoyances and personal, genuine dealings—it makes the trip back to the city feel like no time at all. Steve is still smiling to himself when the Helicarrier lands back in New York, his paperwork having gone completely ignored.

He’ll have to take his work home for the night. He won’t be able to do any art to wind down from the scuffle down South.

 Somehow, he doesn’t mind.

**\---**

Texting Bucky was a turning point.

From that first text on the Helicarrier, everything snowballed. They were close before, but after that first text, Bucky became a pillar in Steve’s life. He never met the guy. Never heard his voice. He doesn’t even know what Bucky looks like. But somehow, Steve found it so much easier to talk to Bucky than he could any number of people in his life. Somehow, screen-to-screen, Steve let himself show his vulnerabilities.

On a snowy mid-January day, Bucky texts Steve: _Plans for today, or painting and staying in?_

And did Steve have _plans_. Congress, in a rare moment of productivity, had some sort of committee hearing, and for whatever reason, they needed Steve. Or they needed _Captain America, Proud Leader of the Avengers._

At least he could finally spend a good three-day weekend with Sam.

> _ME [12:20 PM]: I’m actually in the airport right now, headed to D.C. for the weekend._

Not entirely. He’s standing on the roof of Avengers tower, waiting for one of Tony’s many private vehicles to take him and Natasha to Washington, but it’s close enough to the truth to count.

> _BUCKY [12:20 PM]: :O_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:20 PM]: What’re you doing in DC?_
> 
> _ME [12:21 PM]: I’ve got some stuff to do there for work, but I’ve got a pal who lives in the area, so I’m going to try to take some time off, spend some time together. Catch a movie, that sort of thing._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:21 PM]: Ooh_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:21 PM]: Well, have fun :)_
> 
> _ME [12:22 PM]: I’ll try to. He worries about me a lot, though. Last time he stayed at my place, he ambushed me about going to therapy._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:23 PM]: Least he cares._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:24 PM]: So_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:24] Stop me if I’m prying_
> 
> _ME [12:25 PM]: No, it’s fine. Go on._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:25 PM]: Do you go to therapy, Grant?_

The question is simple. And he has an out. But it still stops Steve—it’s still the equivalent of breaking glass. Had it been any other person, Steve would have brushed the question off. But this was Bucky. Steve could open up to him. He could trust him—even if he didn’t know Steve was _Steve._

> _ME [12:31 PM]: I used to. For a few months a couple years back. Not anymore, though. My friend says I should start going again._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:31 PM]: Oh okay_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:31 PM]: Again, stop me if I'm crossing a line_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:31 PM]: Do you agree with him?_

Steve swallows. There he was, looking the future, looking the _truth,_ straight in the face—and now, it was time to choose. He always knew how he would answer the question, had he ever been asked it. He knew how he felt all along. But he’d just never confronted it.

Maybe now was time.

> _ME [12:36 PM]: I think so. Yeah. I think I should, but…I don’t know._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:36 PM]: I know_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:36 PM]: It’s hard, it’s really hard_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:37 PM]: Therapy did a lotta good for me when I got back. But it’s hard working up the courage to start. Dont force yourself to go if you’re not ready, but I’ve got your back if you wanna go again_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:37 PM]: And it’s real brave of you just to consider the option, too, you know_

That honesty, that kindness, it’s nothing new for Bucky. Yet even still, Steve is surprised at the support. For a second, Steve feels painfully guilty—he feels undeserving of someone so kind.

> _ME [12:41 PM]: Thanks Bucky. Really. Thanks._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:41 PM]: I’m here for you, bud_
> 
> _Me [12:41 PM]: Thank you._
> 
> _ME [12:45 PM]: I have to get on this flight, but…really. Thanks. You don’t know what that means to me._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:46 PM]: It’s what friends do ;P_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:46 PM]: Lemme know when you get to DC safe, yeah?_
> 
> _ME [12:47 PM]: Will do. Talk to you soon._

A Stark Industries pilot— _Harold Hogan,_ his ID says—waves hello to Steve and Natasha. He’s later than scheduled, but Steve doesn’t mind. Pocketing his phone, Steve climbs into one of Tony’s flashy, compact planes, thinking about Bucky’s words the entire time.

**\---**

The snow, it turned out, was worse in the Capitol than it was in New York. The fluffy flurries that blanketed the city had turned into a full-blown snowstorm once they’d passed through Pennsylvania. What should have been less than an hour’s flight turned into four— _even_ given the Stark Industry name printed on the plane’s side.

But Sam—foolishly friendly Sam, who offered to drive Steve and Natasha from Regan National Airport—got the worst of it. If the flight to D.C. wasn’t great, the drive to Sam’s townhouse was _bad._

Steve owes him, _big time._

“Here we are,” Sam sighs, “Home, sweet home. Nat, you’ve got the guest room, and Steve, you—you—shit.”

“You alright?” Natasha asks, already working on getting her boots off.

“Yeah, it’s just—I forgot the air bed at my parents’ house,” he says, sounding like a defeated man. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and sighs a heavy, weary sigh through his mouth. Steve wonders if that’s something Sam started using because of his _real job._ “Back into the snow.”

“It’s okay, Sam. You don’t have to. I can sleep on the couch,” Steve says with a shrug, clearly clueless to the ordeal it would become. Sam looks personally offended at the mere suggestion.

“You are _not_ sleeping on my loveseat, Steve. Even if it wouldn’t make my mom furious if she ever learned I let _Captain America_ sleep on the Norsborg, you wouldn’t fit. It’s a _loveseat._ ”

“I’ve slept on small couches before, Sam. This ain’t too different,” Steve argues, “Come on, we can get it tomorrow morning. You’re tired.”

“I’m getting the goddamn inflatable mattress, _Steven_ ,” Sam says, and the way he says it, that’s the end of it. “You two just—you know your way around the place. Feel free to grab a beer or something from the fridge. We can order some pizzas when I get back.”

“Want me to come with?” Steve offers. If Sam wasn’t going to stop, Steve could at least lend a helping hand. Sam shakes his head.

“Not unless you wanna be trapped at my parents’ place for the weekend,” Sam says, in the chagrined, loving way that only sons of good parents could.

Steve smiles, trying to hide the wave of grief that overtakes him for a small, sharp second. He misses his own mother, all of sudden—but it passes. “Okay. Alright, Sam. Tell your Ma and Pa I said hi.”

“I’ll use those exact words,” Sam says, already halfway out the door, “You two be good.”

“No promises,” Natasha says, bootless and peeking into Sam’s fridge.

“Take care,” Steve says with a nod, and with that, Sam’s off.

“You want a beer?” Natasha offers, as Steve pads over to the couch, the source of all that contention. He slumps against the upholstery, pulling his phone out.

“I’m good,” Steve says, typing out a message to Bucky, “Thanks though.”

> _ME [5:43 PM]: Finally in D.C., about three or four hours late, but I’m here, and I’m safe._

He settles his phone on his thigh, and he clicks Sam’s television on, less to watch, and more to have something to stare at. There’s a game on, some college basketball teams he doesn’t recognize. He lets his mind wander, damn-near completely blank, as he watches the game, feeling the exhaustion of a disastrous flight sink down to his bones. Just as Steve comes back to reality just enough to focus on figuring out where the leading team is from, his phone chimes, and he finds himself more alert all of a sudden, his brain switching gears almost instantly.

> _BUCKY [6:07 PM]: Lol. How’d the flight go?_
> 
> _ME [6:08 PM]: Good, once we were in the air. Spent more time on the runway once we landed, though._
> 
> _BUCKY [6:08 PM]: Boo_
> 
> _BUCKY [6:08 PM]: At least you’re in DC now._
> 
> _ME [6:09 PM]: Yeah. True. As soon as my friend gets back, I’m probably going to eat something. Then maybe try to get some rest. Early day tomorrow, unfortunately._

Steve rubs his face, and when his phone chimes again, Bucky’s replied, first, with a string of thumbs-down and red X emojis, then, with an actual text.

> _BUCKY [6:09 PM]: Boooooooooo_

_It does,_ Steve starts to type out, though Bucky will never read that reply.

“Who are you texting?” asks a quiet voice, just as Steve is about to press _send._ He nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Shit,” he breathes out, and there’s Natasha behind him, her head tucked against the armrest of Sam’s loveseat, watching in on Steve texting for God knows how long. “Don’t fuckin’ do that, Natasha. Jesus Christ.”

“You kiss babies with that mouth?” She asks, making her way to sit next to him, drawing her knees up close to her chest.

“Not for long, if you do that again,” is how Steve replies, “What were you doing watching me text?”

“The real question, Rogers, is _who were you texting.”_

“I—“ Steve starts, “Why does it matter to you?”

She dodges that like a pro, moving to perch on the opposite armrest. Making herself comfortable, even as Steve was not. “Clearly it wasn’t me. And considering this person replied within the hour, I doubt it’s Sam. So—who is it?”

“It’s—a friend.”

“A _friend_ ,” Natasha repeats, looking amused. “Well.”

“Well, what?”

“Well—who’s the _friend?”_ Natasha asks, uncurling herself from her position on the couch, like a snake ready to strike. “Sharon? Bernadette in legal? Jim from engineering? Oh my God. Is it _Lillian? From accounting?”_

“It’s not like that. And it’s none of those people. You—you wouldn’t know him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Uh—James.”

“James _who?_ ”

“James—Buh—“ Steve starts, knowing he’s already sunk. Panicked, he pulls the first name he can think of, skimming the top of his head for a fake identity. “James Bond.”

“James Bond,” Natasha repeats, slow. She is _not_ having it. “The fictional British secret agent.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and he can _feel_ the way his face burns with shame. No wonder the name came so quickly. “Is that—is that what it was? I knew the name sounded familiar, what a weird coincidence—“

 “Cut the shit, Rogers. What’s the guy’s real name?”

Steve sighs, clearly caught. That’s what he gets for trying to out-lie a super-spy. “James Barnes.”

Natasha blinks.

“He—he likes going by Bucky—“

“—If you’re _nasty_ ,” Natasha interrupts, eyes wide and _twinkling._ And when it came to Natasha, if her eyes were twinkling, it was never with _childlike wonder._ Her grin stretches ear-to-ear, and Steve suddenly feels his entire frame tense—not with shame, and not entirely with embarrassment, but with _something_. Pressure under scrutiny. The interrogation blues.

“So, how did you get his number?” Natasha asks, resting her chin in her hands. They both might have gotten out of an air travel debacle that was about three hours too long, but she looks like she’s having the _time of her life._

“We talked. And then, when that Hydra cell took down Instagram, he sent me his number, just in case it happened again—“

“Wait right there,” Natasha interrupts, “You were talking. Through Instagram.”

“Yeah. We were. That’s the only social media I have—“

“No, I know that, Rogers. You were in _private_ correspondence.”

Steve feels his cheeks burn red. At least it isn’t the full-body blush.

“Yeah,” Steve answers, careful. “He said a really nice thing about one of my paintings, so I messaged him.”

That doesn’t seem to help. Natasha grins big and bright, looking like that was the best news she’d ever heard. The only time Steve ever sees anyone look that delighted is when Stark has surprise giveaways on daytime talk shows.

It’s exactly then—as Steve is realizing that he’d gone from enjoying a moment of peace to becoming proverbial prey—that Sam comes back, a paper grocery bag and his inflatable mattress in tow. He sighs, once he sees Natasha sitting on his armrest, but knows trying to get her to stop is a lost cause.

 “What’s going on in here?” Sam asks, plopping his keys onto the counter. He sets the paper bag down, but the mattress—rolled up nicely, like a bedroll—comes with him. “I was only gone for like, an hour. There is _no way_ I could have missed all that much.”

“Steve _literally_ slid into some guy’s DMs, Sam,” Natasha replies, her voice brimming with delight.

When the room changes mood, it’s palpable. Sam takes a moment to process what he just heard, confusion and surprise clear in his eyes, before plopping in the recliner next to the couch. “Huh. Nevermind.”

“Tell me about him. Do you call him Bucky? Are you _nasty?”_ Natasha teases.

“He’s—he’s a great guy. He’s funny, and he’s kind, and he really likes my art,” Steve says, “We talk. Not, you know, over the phone or anything, but we talk. We—we text. It’s nice.”

They both look at him, silent. Contemplative, maybe. Surprised, definitely.

“And yes, I call him Bucky.”

“And he calls you—?” Natasha asks. Her tone of voice is still light, but Steve’s still trying to figure out what concern looks like on her. He thinks this might be it.

“Grant. I mean, I couldn’t tell him who I am. Can’t say I’m Captain America, just wanting to have a normal life,” Steve replies, “But I’m—I dunno, mostly, I’m honest with him. Mostly.”

“I can’t believe you’re Catfishing someone, dude,” Sam says, and Natasha snorts. Steve has a feeling he’s missing out on a joke, and makes a note to figure out the context of that one.

“So, what do you talk about? You looked pretty glued to your phone there,” says Natasha.

“Art. Books. Coffee places around Brooklyn. How the day’s going. I dunno, we just talk about _things,_ you know?” Steve says. “I—we talked about therapy today. He told me what it’s like to go.”

Sam looks at Steve carefully, before speaking. His tone is softer now. Steve doesn’t know if he feels comfortable about it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. The remaining exhaustion from the flight was gone, but he doesn’t follow up. He's leaving it at that.

“Well,” Sam says, “That’s good.”

“Just don’t start sharing anything _too_ personal with the guy. Don’t get too nasty with Mister _Bucky, if_ _you’re nasty_ ," Natasha jokes, in that deadpan way of hers—a way to ease the tension, to bring things back to something light. Steve sends her a little smile.

“You know, you haven’t put your bags in the guest room yet,” he says, “Don’t think our arrangements are set in stone.”

“Take the guest room from me and you’re in for another seventy-year sleep, Rogers,” Natasha says, and she’s smiling, but Steve isn’t naïve enough to think she isn’t capable of it.

“Hey, come on, no fighting in the house,” Sam chides, smiling. Natasha quirks her eyebrows at Steve. A _Just you try it,_ without words. “But seriously, Steve. I’m glad you made a friend.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. What he has in that moment isn’t a revelation, per se. But he feels closer to a breakthrough, still. “Yeah, me, too.”

**\---**

It takes some time before that breakthrough really comes into its own, but slow and careful, it does. Steve, with all the battle-tested, Greatest Generation bravery built into him, makes an appointment for himself. He seeks out help.

When Steve finishes up that first session, the person he goes to right after isn’t Natasha, though she’s in town. It isn’t even Sam, who, as a therapist, would be the most logical choice.  

It’s Bucky.

Steve doesn’t stop walking, once he’s out of the therapist’s office. He just tries to keep walking, keep moving, until he’s somehow seated in the back car of a subway train. It’s painfully empty. Looking at the garish orange seats is like putting a heat lamp between his eyes. It makes Steve feel sick. Instead of resting his head, instead of closing his eyes, he follows his subconscious. He does what it tells him to do. He pulls out his phone, and taps out a message, not to Natasha or Sam or any of the Avengers—but to Bucky.

> _ME [12:41 PM]: Just got out of therapy._

The reply is instant.

> _BUCKY [12:43 PM]: How're you feeling?_
> 
> _ME [12:45 PM]: Like my insides have been cored out by an ice cream scoop._

Bucky sends a string of sad emojis, a little gesture of solidarity.

> _ME [12:46 PM]: But...I want to go back. I think I feel sick, but in the good way. I think._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:48 PM]: It gets better. It did for me. The first session is usually one of the hardest_

Steve sighs, still feeling like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. The walk to his apartment from the station wasn’t long, but as soon as he’s in his apartment, Steve all but collapses. All he wants to do is sink into the soft, comfortable leather of his couch and sleep. Instead, he taps out a response to Bucky. It takes an almost-herculean amount of energy just to get the letters down.

> _ME [1:12 PM]: Yeah?_
> 
> _BUCKY [1:13 PM]: Yeah. Not to be a total cliché, but it gets better_

Steve sighs. He sure hopes so.

> _ME [1:18 PM]: That’s good to hear._
> 
> _BUCKY [1:18 PM]: But Grant? Even if it sucked, I’m really proud of you._
> 
> _BUCKY [1:18 PM]: It’s not easy to take that first step. You were brave to do this. And you’re brave, even still, for deciding to keep going. You’re a real hero, and I’m proud, Grant. I’m proud_

Seeing that message—especially in his tender, fragile state—broke a dam in Steve. His heart felt like it was flooding, like the murky uncertainty of the post-therapy hurt was draining. There’s a familiar fuzziness and sting in the corners of his eyes, and he swipes the back of his hand against his face, wishing—not for the first time—that he could hug Bucky, that they could meet. That they could make their friendship more _real_.

> _ME [1:27 PM]: Bucky?_
> 
> _BUCKY [1:27 PM]: What’s up?_
> 
> _ME [1:27 PM]: I’m really glad I have you._

Steve doesn’t wait for the reply on that one. He just clicks his phone locked, sets it on his coffee table, and—feeling less raw, less like an open wound—goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaah wow. this semester is definitely a doozy. i'm going to try to update when and where i can, though. don't think this work is abandoned.
> 
> so, some things: 
> 
> \- i actually love [marco rudy's art](http://tinyurl.com/h398j7o) in the "bucky in space" arc. he's one of my favorite marvel comics artists. i just had a few (several) problems with the story. sorry. also, alien tittays. 
> 
> \- [same thing about high school au/runaways!bucky](http://tinyurl.com/hkqzdur).
> 
> \- w. heath robinson is more famous for his wacky machine llustrations, but he did some fantastic fairy tale illustrations before those. you can actually read the book that brings bucky and steve together [here](http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00086949/00001/1j), courtesy of the university of florida.
> 
> \- arnie and his chess partner were almost charles and erik but i don't go there. also, check out all those cameos. kudos to you if you can catch them all. 
> 
> last thing: raz ([phoenixgryphon on tumblr](http://phoenixgryphon.tumblr.com/)) is amazing, and offered to draw hot librarian!bucky art. [here's some](http://phoenixgryphon.tumblr.com/post/155842982803/some-oversized-sweater-beefs-cos-im-working-on) [process stuff](http://phoenixgryphon.tumblr.com/post/155938384353/more-buckys-for-the-thing-im-doing-with-izzy).
> 
> thanks again, everyone! see you when i see you. : >


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's nothing like spring in the city.

It’s early March when Steve’s routine veers again, the familiar path of his day taking an unexpected turn into uncharted waters; into something different and unexpected and _new._

Steve has been following the official Martinelli Public Library Instagram account ever since he and Bucky became regulars in one other’s lives. Knowing Bucky’s own Instagram presence, it’s clear that he’s the one running it—even if he didn’t outright state he was the account’s curator in his Instagram bio, Steve has a feeling he would know it was him. The official Martinelli feed is little more than a cleaned-up, professionalized version of the snarky rambling about book covers and shots of classic illustrations Bucky posts on his personal account. 

The Martinelli account usually updated twice a day, excluding the days Bucky had off and the odd unremarkable day when even he couldn’t think of something exciting. It was a predictable, simple, lighthearted thing that Steve could expect on his Instagram feed, just another one of the little cogs in the machine that kept him from breaking apart. Art supply runs and cold-brew coffee. Dogs in the park and Werther’s toffees. Bucky’s little attempts to bring the Martinelli into the twenty-first century; stability. _These were a few of Steve’s favorite things._

On that early March day, just as the city was just starting to warm up, something changes. Riding in on the coattails of a warm, first-day-of-spring breeze, came something new—a signal to revolution, a landmark opening the door to a new world:

A selfie. By a teenage girl.

Specifically, an intern at the Martinelli Public Library—Kamala Khan, Bucky’s unofficial favorite. Grinning wide and sunny on the Martinelli’s Instagram was a welcome surprise; like the first day of spring, bright colors and electric energy and all.

> _@martinelli_pl: Hi, Instagram! We're shaking things up this today! Intern Kamala (@skadoosh) will be taking over the account for the day for an insider’s look at intern life at the Martinelli (and to give your regular narrator a break :P). Check out our feed and our Instagram story all throughout the day today for more real-time intern updates! #martinellipubliclibrary #internlife #bookstagram_

It’s not what Steve expected on his walk home, but it’s a welcome surprise. With a giant iced coffee and Blick bag in one hand, Steve readies himself for a day working on art—a reward to himself for finishing mission paperwork without having it sent back for bureaucratic revisions.

Time passes by in a warm haze, the scratch of charcoal against paper and Billie Holiday’s familiar croon acting as a soundtrack to his afternoon. By the time Steve needs to flip his record over, he’s already got enough drafts for his new painting to feel comfortable getting the foundations on canvas. He decides to do just that—but not before checking Instagram.

His feed, as always, is almost all coffeeshop fodder: pastries and colorful lox and avocado bagels and fancy drinks, with delicate designs in foam. Steve takes a sip of his own drink. It's now less _iced coffee_ and more _water with coffee._ He finishes it, anyway. Waste not, want not.

Just as Steve is about to get back to his work, he catches an update from the Martinelli at the end of his timeline. He skims his eyes over the picture, looking from Kamala to the other figure in the picture, glancing down at the caption for context—and he stops.

> _@martinelli_pl: A rare sighting of your narrator in the wild! #shelfie #boyswhoread #martinellipubliclibrary #confirmed._

Bucky.

She means Bucky.

Steve blinks, and scans over the image again, this time, taking in every detail.

In the foreground of the image is Kamala, grinning widely at the camera, but she is pulled to the side, clearly not the focus of her own selfie. Instead, the focus of the photo is the scene over her shoulder; the star of the photo seems hardly aware it was taken.

Bucky—or who must be Bucky—is half-obscured by his monitor, clearly engrossed in some serious library work. Kamala has circled him with a thick red line and added a few arrows pointing to him, perhaps in overkill. Thankfully, it doesn't obscure any of Bucky. Not that it would change much. The picture Kamala posted reveals quite little; Steve can only see Bucky from the bridge of his nose and up, but even that little glimpse of him makes Steve's heart flutter.  

It’s a confirmation, a comfort to put the ghosts of Steve’s greatest fears to rest; proof that Bucky is, in fact, a real person—not some scam artist preying on poor, lonely men on Instagram, and sure as hell not some algorithm meant to mine information from him.

It feels like a milestone, like a big step, like their relationship evolved into something with the snap of a selfie.

Steve breathes and pockets his phone again, taking some time to open up one of the windows before getting to work again. It feels right to let the spring breeze in; to get some air.

Even as he begins to copy his sketch onto the canvas, Steve can’t stop thinking about Instagram. He can’t stop thinking about Bucky—about his _realness._

Eventually, curiosity gets the best of him again. His sketch only half-done, Steve checks Instagram. Kamala has since updated the Martinelli's Instagram Story, judging by the sunset-colored circle surrounding the Martinelli’s logo at the top of his feed. Steve taps on it, hoping with almost-obsessive curiosity for a better glimpse of Bucky.

The first few pictures and videos on the Martinelli’s Instagram story are Kamala continuing to go about her day, exploring the library in a peppy, behind-the-scenes tour of life at the Martinelli. She introduces some of the Martinelli’s other staff—a bookish-looking intern named Miles; Nancy, one of the self-described “tech girls” in charge of the servers; Dolores, the head librarian. Bucky had featured each of them on the Martinelli’s Instagram before, in passing. Never through video—never in their own words. But they were familiar faces.

Then, an unfamiliar face. Someone new. Someone previously unseen— _the man behind the camera. The man behind the keys._

 _He's shy,_ the text on the video reads, followed by a chain of emojis: a few blushing emojis, a grinning emoji, and most puzzling, a monkey covering its eyes and grinning. What the _See No Evil_ monkey had to do with the situation, Steve couldn’t decipher, but of his immediate concerns, that was somewhere near the bottom, given _Bucky._

"Say hi to the internet!" Kamala’s voice says, from behind the camera. Bucky glances up briefly, flicking his eyes up towards the camera and smiles, coy, into his long, fluffy-looking hair.

"Hi, internet," he replies, not taking his eyes off his notebook, but smiling, nonetheless. It’s a notably perfect smile, even ducked into his hair. Steve takes particular interest in that.

The video ends, and for a split second, Steve feels his heart ache with disappointment before he realizes he has many, many more parts to the Instagram story before it ends. Hope springs up in his chest again, mixed with scathing self-reflection. Why was he suddenly so fixated on his internet best friend? Why was he so disappointed at the prospect of not seeing the rest of his face, when he’d been content just knowing that Bucky _existed_ for weeks and weeks before? His best friend was real, and he looked to be around Steve’s age. No big deal. No need to be desperate. Steve takes a deep breath, trying to reason with himself, trying to calm down—as the next video loads up.

"Tell them who you are and what you do!" says Kamala, apparently jumping off from where the previous video left off.

Bucky sighs, but he’s still smiling, and the line of his shoulders doesn’t speak to anger or excess tension. He’s clearly not annoyed by her. If anything, he seems charmed—chagrined, in the way big brothers are. He looks up at the camera, his hair _swooshing_ as he does, and he adjusts his glasses— _glasses!_ —before he speaks.

"My name is James, and I do what you're doing, usually,” Bucky says, his voice low and soft, and like nothing Steve has ever heard before. “And—I guess, other librarian stuff. As you can see."

“Like what?”

“I’m currently writing down interlibrary loan requests,” Bucky replies. His cable-knit sweater looks soft. It reminds Steve of peaches. “Then I’m going to go hunting for them.”

“Is it fun?” Kamala asks from the other side of the camera.

“A _delight,_ ” Bucky says, sarcastic enough to be charming but warm enough for that sarcasm to be _sweet_ , before going straight back into his work.

The video ends there. That glimpse of Bucky—those few precious seconds—were short, far too short. Immediately following it is a still photo; another selfie of Kamala, the words, _There you have it! Libraries: fun for everyone!_ in bright white text bracketing her face. Steve is almost ashamed at how disappointed he is—not because he’s seeing Kamala. But because he’s _not_ seeing Bucky. Bucky, with his soft, flowy hair and big glasses and pearly, perfect smile.

Steve sinks deep into his favorite armchair, feeling like he’d been caught in a whirl. He hadn’t felt that emotional about Instagram since he first started posting, all those months ago. Of all the things Steve expected, of all the revelations and surprises he’d learned to reasonably expect from his line of work, he could never have predicted this.

Bucky is real. Steve’s first twenty-first century friend outside of the Avengers, outside of other military men, outside of the walled city that was the social circle that Steve used to restrict himself to, is real.

But more important than that, more important than anything—Steve’s first twenty-first century civilian friend is _cute._

Steve takes a deep breath and taps out a quick message to said twenty-first century friend, trying hard not to charge head-on; trying hard to stop himself from texting Bucky, _WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU WERE CUTE._

It’s much more of a struggle than Steve could ever admit.

> _ME [4:42 PM]: So…I liked your cameo in the Martinelli’s Instagram story today._

Steve’s phone pings quickly. In spite of his best efforts to keep calm, as soon as he hears that chime, he scrambles to check his messages; a Pavlovian response, amplified now by a factor of a thousand. Amplified now, because _Bucky is real, and Bucky is cute._

> _BUCKY [4:43 PM]: Oh god you saw it_
> 
> _BUCKY [4:43 PM]: Did I look as awkward as I felt_
> 
> _ME [4:44 PM]: You were fine!_
> 
> _BUCKY [4:45 PM]: BUT WAS I_
> 
> _BUCKY_ _[_ _4:46 PM_ _]: The reason I’m never on the feed is because_ _I_ _get_ _uncomfortable_ _when_ _I_ _know_ _I_ _’_ _m_ _being_ _filmed_
> 
> _BUCKY [4:46 PM]: And because I’m the most AWKWARD MAN IN THE WORLD_

More than anyone, _Steve_ can sympathize with that. Not that he can tell Bucky the extent to it—telling him the panic he felt at the first few USO shows would be a _little_ telling—but he sympathizes.

> _ME [4:50 PM]: Nah, I know how you feel. But you were fine. Really._
> 
> _BUCKY [4:53 PM]: I don’t believe it, but thank you_

Steve sends him a string of thumbs-up emojis and goes about his own work, until his phone pings again. Bucky’s reply is somehow both simple and cryptic, a single image of a green frog doll, lying facedown on the ground and on fire. It shouldn’t be funny, but Steve finds himself laughing anyway, tossing his head back and giggling at the sheer absurdity of it.

> _ME [4:58 PM]: Ha!_
> 
> _ME [5:00 PM]: I mean it, though, Bucky. You were fine._
> 
> _BUCKY [5:00 PM]: |:/_
> 
> _ME [5:00 PM]: Would I lie to you?_
> 
> _BUCKY [5:01 PM]: You wouldn’t, but I still don’t believe you |:////////_
> 
> _ME [5:02 PM]: Well, then I guess we’re just going to have to agree to disagree, bud._
> 
> _ME [5:03 PM]: Now get back to work. Weren’t you supposed to be getting some books for some nice people? ;)_
> 
> _BUCKY [5:03 PM]: Yeah I GUESS_
> 
> _BUCKY [5:04 PM]: But hey. thanks again, Grant_
> 
> _BUCKY [5:04 PM]: Even though I still STRONGLY DISAGREE_
> 
> _ME [5:06 PM]: Any time, Buck. Any time._

With a heavy sigh, Steve clicks his phone locked, and tries to stop thinking about Bucky. With his phone burning in his pocket, Steve tries to get back to work.

**\---**

Ever since catching a glimpse of Bucky, something changed in Steve.

Maybe he was just becoming more used to life in the digital world. Maybe Steve was finally learning how to trust.

Or maybe it was just his crush. Maybe he just had it _bad._

Whatever the reason, Steve knew one thing—he didn’t want to be incognito anymore. He didn’t want to keep hiding his face, his life, his name, from Bucky, his best friend, after Sam. He wanted to go to coffee with Bucky. He wanted real-life closeness. He wanted physical connection.

He wanted to _meet._  

That urge to meet was a seed, its roots cutting deep, back to the days where their relationship was young. But there it was, now fully bloomed, having sprung up at the first glance of sun—at the first glance of Bucky’s _realness_ —like dandelions springing up from cracks in concrete.

Steve doesn’t last long after that first glimpse of Bucky. He only holds off for so long, the measured self-restraint he’d so-finely cultivated over his ninety-plus years of life buckling under the weight of a _want_ —to reach out, to deepen those ties, to _have someone_.

It’s two and a half weeks between then when Steve’s ironclad will finally breaks. It’s late March, and April is still impossibly far away; the last ebbs of winter, typical upsets, brought a late cold snap on the city, and even Steve—whose serum-enhanced metabolism has him running hot all year—finds himself shivering at the sudden temperature swing.

> _ME [12:19 PM]: Made the stupid mistake of going out for my run without my fleece jacket this morning. :(_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:23 PM]: GRANT <:O_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:23 PM]: Are you alright?_
> 
> _ME [12:25 PM]: Running in nothing but leggings and an Under Armour Henley wasn’t fun, and I don’t get cold easy. I’m making a huge pot of coffee and not leaving the house until April._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:25 PM]: GOOD_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:25 PM]: What’re your plans? Gonna paint something?_
> 
> _ME [12:26 PM]: Yeah, maybe get something started. Or catch up on reading. Haven’t really done that in a while._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:26 PM]: Nice :D_
> 
> _ME [12:28 PM]: Yeah, it is._

Steve knows what he’s doing. He realizes it before he even begins putting words down. For a second, he considers going back, walking their conversation back to the safe zone. Back to what was _comfortable_ , back to something that didn’t teeter over the edge of a dangerous new world.

He considers all this, and considers it all quite seriously. But in the end, Steve presses _send_ anyway.

> _ME [12:37 PM]: I was actually thinking I could start going to the library again. I haven’t been since I was a kid. I’m trying to make more time for myself and I think reading again will do it._

Which wasn’t entirely a lie. Steve was being honest when he said he wanted to get back into reading again. He was just overplaying how dedicated he was to going to libraries again, rather than how much he wanted to connect with a _very specific librarian._

> _BUCKY [12:40 PM]: COME TO THE MARTINELLI_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:41 PM]: We can tear the shit outta the bad pulp novel collection we’ve got and I could show you all the comfiest places to read :O_

Bucky’s enthusiasm sparks something warm in Steve’s chest. Good to see the feeling was mutual.

> _ME [12:47 PM]: Actually…I would love that. Plus, it’d be great to finally meet you. Let’s do it!_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:48 PM]: Holy shit, really?_
> 
> _ME [12:48 PM]: Why not? :)_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:50 PM]: Right yeah okay!!!! Let’s do it!!!!!!!_
> 
> _ME [12:50 PM]: How does next week sound? Maybe…Wednesday? Around two, three?_
> 
> _BUCKY [12:51 PM]: Next Wednesday at two?_
> 
> _ME [12:53 PM]: If that works for you._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:54 PM]: Totally!!!!! I’ll be sure to be around the circulation desk. Just lemme know it’s you :)_
> 
> _ME [12:54 PM]: Yeah. Yeah, of course._
> 
> _BUCKY [12:55 PM]: :D <3_

The little heart makes Steve smile, wide and full. Maybe he’s looking for something that isn’t there—maybe he’s looking just deep enough. But for a second, Steve thinks that heart is a sign—one that Bucky’s fondness and his crush on Bucky are one and the same.

> _BUCKY [1:07 PM]: Shit gotta run_
> 
> _BUCKY [1:07 PM]: Got a gaggle of kindergarteners coming in_
> 
> _BUCKY [1:07 PM]: But I’ll see you on Wednesday!!!! I’m excited to meet you!!!!!_
> 
> _ME [1:08 PM]: Me too, Bucky. :)_

Steve watches as his screen fades to black before pocketing his phone. Anxiety and excitement tingle at his chest and in the tips of his fingers in equal measures. In just a few characters, he'd successfully pushed them both over the edge, plunging face-first into something completely different—into the _real world._ Into a new frontier. A new reality. 

Unknown territory, yes. But if Steve could wake up seventy years into a neon-bright future and survive, he could do this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are happening. both in-fic, and in my life. so it goes, you know. i finally found a chance to breathe, so here's this. 
> 
> some notes, per usual:
> 
> \- i had a lot of trouble trying to choose who to make the martinelli's main intern, because i didn't want it to be anyone already in the MCU (such as darcy or jane) and i didn't want it to be anyone who would have, theoretically, a direct connection to someone already in the MCU (such as kate bishop). so, my daughter. there she is.
> 
> \- there are two lists that i keep for this fic: foods (because i don't wanna repeat anything) and bucky's ridiculous library boy outfits. i'm seriously considering posting on polyvore again.
> 
> \- the revolution is a teenage girl, i'm telling you.
> 
> see you when i see you, everyone. again, catch me on [tumblr](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/) if you need me.
> 
> next up: steve and bucky, in the flesh.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in like a lion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a word of caution before we start: this chapter deals, somewhat more than previous chapters, with anxiety and anxiety attacks. the next chapter deals with it significantly less. 
> 
> please take precaution with regards to your own state, health, tolerance, and other factors that might impact your own wellbeing, and act however you feel is best.

Steve bounces through that next week in a euphoric haze. For once, the ever-constant lowgrade anxiety buzzing in the back of his skull ebbs, and Steve drifts, as if in a dream. He's walking on air—high on the excitement of the prospect of _meeting Bucky._ Of making their relationship _more real._

But as with all highs, coming down is the worst part. Steve Rogers—the Greek tragedy of two centuries, Icarus with a shield—crashes. Exactly twenty-nine hours and four minutes before he and Bucky made a date to meet, in the middle of a story about some presumably-extinct Australian species, Steve is struck—blindsided—by the weighty implications of their meeting; by the gritty necessities of reality.

As much as going incognito had helped in forming his and Bucky's ever-close, internet-only relationship, it created a clear problem. Keeping secrets, withholding parts of the truth—it was a ticking time bomb.

Bucky was going to meet Steve, face-to-face. In the flesh. But more than anything, he was going to meet, communicate with, and be intimately close to _Captain America._ The second Steve would walk into the library, the entire illusion would shatter. Grant would be gone.

And that revelation, that implication—the potential attention and danger and the sheer _weight_ of that association—was _not_ something that Steve could just dump on Bucky all at once. At best, it would overwhelm the guy. It would throw into question their tenuously intimate relationship.

At worst, Steve could lose him.

With the full depth of uncertainty and panic and _crash_ weighing down on him, Steve, instead of quitting, instead of heading home, instead of following his comfortingly-familiar, tenuously-constructed routine, keeps running. He doesn’t stop for coffee. He doesn’t stop to eat. He hardly stops to breathe. He just runs, and runs, and runs, until all of New York—loud and chaotic and jewel-toned—turns into a sick, fuzzy gray haze. He runs until his heart pulls a ache in his chest, until he’s half-sure he’s exhausted all the serum. Until he’s convinced he’s run himself small again.

Steve is far from home by the time his run disintegrates into a walk. He’s somewhere on the Upper West Side, surrounded by million-dollar apartments and designer bags and beautiful people. He doesn’t stick out one bit, but he sure as hell doesn’t feel like he belongs. As much as he doesn’t want to head back—as much as going home would force him to face the immense difficulty of the situation he has drawn himself into, wandering around the Upper West Side wasn’t going to make things better. It was time to be brave, to drum up that Steve Rogers courage, and go home.

Of course, courage is a nebulous thing. And Steve Rogers, in the very fabric of his soul, is a courageous man. Without even a second thought, he can lay his life on the line to save the ones he loves. To save the _world_ he loves.

But Steve Rogers is _not_ a folk hero. No matter what mythology might have sprung up around his name in the years he'd been asleep, Steve Rogers is not the twentieth century's Paul Bunyan. He’s a human being. An enhanced human, but a human, nonetheless. And Steve Rogers, like all human beings, courageous as he may be, cannot be brave all the time, without question. Even he stumbles. Even he needs help. Even he has attacks and runs through half of New York City in a semi-dissociative haze.

Which is why, at 2:03 PM, twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes before he’d planned on meeting with Bucky, Steve seeks out help.

At 2:03 PM, twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes before he made plans to meet with Bucky, Steve Rogers, bravest person of the twentieth century, calls Sam.

Steve is curled up in his favorite armchair, focusing on the sound of the ringing tone on the other end. He hasn’t changed out of his workout clothes—dark blue Nike leggings and a black Under Armour zip-up—and he pinches his sock-clad toes around the armrest nervously, like a cat flexing its paws.

Just as Steve is about to hang up—just as he’s about to resign himself to a lone life of anxiety—Sam picks up. Just in time.

“Hey Steve. What’s up?” says Sam’s familiar voice. It doesn’t completely drain Steve’s tension, but after hearing Sam’s voice, it ebbs.

Steve takes a deep breath. “Hey, Sam. I—uh. Yeah, I’ve been well. Hey, what are you up to? You busy?”

“A little bit,” Sam answers. It’s his work-way of saying _like you wouldn’t fucking believe._

“Oh,” Steve says, feeling deflated again. Of course he would be. It’s the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. Only Steve, with almost a century’s worth of backpay, had the luxury of wasting the first half of his Tuesday.

“You need to talk?” Sam asks. 

Steve swallows. “Yeah, I—uh. I need some advice.”

There’s a silence on the end of the other line. Contemplation. Steve counts the seconds in agony. He knows Sam would never be so judgmental. He knows Sam would let him down easy, even if he were to say no. But he feels like he’s in front of a tribunal, anyway. _All rise for the trial of Steve Rogers: his crime? Taking up too much of his best friend’s time._

“Gimme like, an hour and a half. And no FaceTime. As popular as you are, people are gonna keep popping in if they see we’re FaceTiming,” Sam says, eventually.

“Thanks, Sam. You’re a lifesaver. Seriously.”

“It’s in the job description,” Sam jokes. Steve huffs out a laugh, hoping it comes across on the line. “But I gotta go. Talk to you soon, Steve.”

“Talk to you soon.”

Steve tries to make the most out of the hour and a half he is waiting for Sam to call. But it’s tough. He tries to sketch. He tries to make coffee. He even tries to read a little, but nothing manages to hold his attention for more than five minutes. Eventually, he settles on watching television, curled up in that familiar, comfortable recliner again, the very same recliner he pulled himself into the first time he caught a glimpse of Bucky, and he waits for Sam’s call, absentmindedly watching how rubber bands are made as a calming Canadian narrator drones on.

Eventually, Sam calls—ten minutes earlier than Steve expected—and he answers the call before even the second ring.

“Hi,” Steve says, “Thanks again for talking to me.”

“Hey, no problem,” Sam replies. It sounds like there’s something in his mouth. He’s probably on his lunch break. A late one, too. Things must have been non-stop for him to push lunch into the mid-afternoon. There comes that guilt again. “So what’s your emergency?”

“How do you know I have an emergency?”

“You sound like you have an emergency.”

“Oh,” Steve says, almost surprised. Sam knows him well. Maybe he _doesn’t_ need to make new friends, after all, he thinks, for the briefest of moments. Maybe these friends, were enough, distant in location and emotional availability as they are.

But he _wants_ to know Bucky. He _wants it._

“So, I uh—I’m doing it. I’m going out and meeting people. Well, meeting _a_ person. But I’m expanding my circle. Just like my therapist and you and Nat and everyone has been telling me to do. But—I just—how am I even supposed to do this? How the hell am I supposed to tell people I’m Captain America?” Steve groans. He puts on his phoniest show voice and practices it—the worst-case scenario. “ _Hi, I’m Steve, I like baseball, art, and also, being friends with me puts you in the public eye since you’ll be dating-slash-hanging out with-slash workout buddies with the leader of the Avengers. You might even get abducted! Wanna get coffee sometime?”_

“Honestly?” Sam says, “That’s pretty much how you have to do it.”

Steve frowns. “Is that how you do it, Sam?”

“I mean—I don’t go up to people in bars anymore, and I don’t just slide up to people and say, _Hey, babe. I’m the Falcon, in case you didn’t know. Want me to take you for a ride?_ And I definitely don’t bring up the abduction thing. _Don’t_ do that, Steve,” Sam says, “But you know, I just tell ‘em. Just lay out the reality of being with you. Friends or partners or otherwise.”

“And it goes over well?” Steve asks, “Seriously?”

“I mean, like I said. I don’t do a whole lotta casual sex anymore, or anything. And my experience is gonna be different from yours. But I will say if you’re going in for something built on respect and you make it clear you’re looking for a serious friendship—or relationship, whatever—usually, people are understanding about it.”

“I dunno, Sam—“ 

“Look, like I said, it’s only my experience, and I can’t say yours is gonna be identical. It’s probably not gonna be, since you’re _Captain America._ But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Especially since it sounds like you’re already know this person, or you’re being set up with this person. Just be frank and be honest, and don’t put up with shit if it doesn’t feel right. You should be fine, Steve. You’re already all of those things.”

“Thanks, Sam. Just—thanks,” Steve says, huffing out a breath. “I owe you one.”

“I’ll put it on your tab,” Sam jokes. “Who are you meeting, anyway?”

“Just—someone I’ve been talking to. Someone I’d like to be friends with.”

“Friends?” Sam asks, and Steve can _hear_ the way his eyebrows raise from the other end of the line. “Just friends?”

“Yeah. Friends. I mean it,” Steve says. Friends where one thought the other was really, really cute, and where one would like nothing more than to smell the other’s hair. But friends, nonetheless. Steve conveniently forgets to tell Sam this.

“Where’d you meet this almost-friend?”

“Uh—you know, just—common interests. That—uh. That sort of thing.”

“Hmm. Yeah. Okay,” Sam says, clearly suspicious of Steve’s answer.

They sit in silence for a few seconds without either speaking or hanging up.

“So. Uh,” Steve says, awkwardly cutting that silence. “How’s work?”

“Ugh,” Sam groans, “Don’t get me started.”

“Rough?”

“Rough doesn’t begin to cover it. They should really rename D.C. _Bureaucratic Asshole City_ , at this rate. Today made mission paperwork look like a sunny vacation in Miami,” Sam says, almost groaning.

“Want me to call you out on _Avengers duty_ for a weekend?” Steve asks. He’s joking about it, but if Sam said yes, he would do it. Right then and there, he would do it. He has the power to—just one of the perks of being team leader. Not that he ever does it, but it’s a good option.

“Nah, this stuff has to get done,” Sam says, “But thanks. Maybe next month.”

“Well, if you need help or anything, lemme know. It’s the least I could do.”

“Thanks, Steve. Seriously.”

“No, Sam. Thank _you._ ”

Another silence. Another comfortable lull.

Sam breaks the silence this time. “Well, I’ve gotta go. I need to finish up a few things before I can leave. But Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

Steve smiles. “Thanks, Sam.”

As he ends their call and clicks his phone off, Steve—twenty-one hours and fifty-three minutes away from his meeting with Bucky—can only one thing: 

_I sure as hell need it._

**\---**

Steve Rogers stands in front of the Martinelli Public Library at one-fifteen. Exactly forty-five minutes from their scheduled meet-up. Exactly forty-five minutes and fifteen feet away from an excited, expectant Bucky.

The library is small, tucked between Avengers Park and a row of classic Brooklyn brownstones, right at the end of the street. Small as it may be, it's a nice, classic prewar building—red brick, lots of windows, and because of its proximity to the park, just the right amount of crawling ivy. It's picturesque. It almost looks like coming home. Steve can see why Bucky loves working there so much. He would work here too, maybe, in another life.

But the welcoming exterior of the Martinelli is only a small comfort for Steve, still feeling a swirling mix of anxiety and anticipation in his gut. Courage is a nebulous thing, indeed, and standing outside the Martinelli, standing at the threshold between keeping things safe and familiar and pushing into the unknown, Steve was starting to question whether he was qualified to be the Avengers’ _brave leader_ , after all.

"You can do this,” Steve says to himself, trying to push the loop of _Bucky will see you and he will leave you because your entire relationship is built on half-lies_ out of mind. “You can do this. You can _do this_."

With a deep breath, Steve pushes himself forward, willing his body to move. Steve walks on, his hands still tingling with anxiety, but moving forward, still. He feels young and small and fragile again. Not that it never stopped him from doing difficult things before.

The library is quiet when he enters, and it almost feels like he’s intruding, but there’s an abundance of natural light that makes the almost-silent library seem less crypt-like; less like some sort of cathedral to reading, and more comfortable. Almost homey. It’s even set up like someone’s home, with eclectic couches and worn reading tables and a colorful playhouse set up in the children’s area. Being in the Martinelli brings Steve back to a time when he was young, when he first visited a library, all those decades ago; to yellowed hardback books and spending afternoons reading, to weeks spent in bed, reading stories of heroes from centuries long since passed.

Steve smiles to himself, the buzz fading, if only slightly. Entering the Martinelli feels like he’d been invited into someone’s house. Like he'd been invited over for dinner, while his mother was at work. Suddenly, Steve finds himself aching for a time he was smaller and sharper and didn't have to worry about dodging paparazzi and watching for danger whenever he went places. Maybe then this would have been easier, if he'd come with less baggage attached, and fewer difficult introductions to do.

He scans the mostly-empty library quickly like it's a battlefield; like it's a mission—just another way to reconceptualize this task, this moment, to make it easier to tackle. It's not long before Steve catches a glimpse of Bucky sitting at the circulation desk, lit up by the early afternoon light filtering in from the windows in thick, hazy beams. He's resting his chin on his left hand and he's got what looks to be a half-eaten granola bar in the right. His head is tipped just slightly; just so–in deep contemplation of whatever book he's engrossed in. Taking the scene in from a distance, from a position as a passive, neutral observer, is like looking at art. It's like standing in the Met and being the only person in the Baroque gallery. It’s like walking in on Caravaggio in his studio, like unearthing a lost Klimt.

There goes the battlefield.

With a deep breath, Steve walks slow and steady to the circulation desk, shoulders thrown back and head high, exuding the confidence of a man marching his troops to war. Focusing, anxiety and apprehension be damned, on his mission. He walks with intent, his eyes laser-focusing on Bucky—who, for his part, seems buried in something. He’s just about to introduce himself, just about to reveal himself as Bucky’s internet friend, when Bucky jerks his head up, looking at Steve.

"Can I help you?" Bucky asks, not unkindly, closing his book—a thick ordering catalog of children’s books, it looks like—softly.

When Steve gets a good look at Bucky, an actual, straightforward look at him, suddenly, all that confidence, all that Captain America stage-swagger, is gone. Steve takes one look at Bucky and suddenly he's fourteen to the day and tripping over his own thoughts, completely incapable of any sort of coherency.

Not that it's entirely his fault. Bucky is _gorgeous._ It’s like a kick to the gut when they make eye contact.

His hair is tied back in a messy little bun, loose wisps of hair framing his face. There’s a vaguely delicate, refined look about his features, a sharpness to his bone structure that hints to the fact that _maybe_ he could find work as the face for some international designer, if he'd cleaned up a little. It's something that’s somehow made so much more endearing by the thick, horn-rimmed glasses perched low on the bridge of Bucky's nose. He's got a jawline that could cut glass, a dimple in his chin, and what must be the bluest eyes Steve's ever seen.

The blurry pictures and half-focused videos of him on Instagram really don't do him justice. Not at all.

"Uh—" Steve starts, fully aware he's already floundering. " _Hi._ "

Bucky furrows his eyebrows for a second, tilting his head just so, a question half-formed as he looks over Steve. But just as he is about to ask, something dawns on him. He shifts entirely, seeming to put the pieces together. Realization is completely evident on his face, and his mouth—perfect, beautiful, kissable mouth—parts, if just slightly.

"Captain Rogers," he says, and it’s not exactly what Steve is expecting.

For all the panicking that he did over Bucky realizing that Grant and Steve and Captain America were the same person, Steve slowly realized that never would have happened without self-disclosure. He never told Bucky what he was going to wear. He never told Bucky what to look out for. The only time that he posted anything close to a picture of himself was a faceless self-portrait of a body that was no longer his own. Of course Bucky wouldn't expect that Steve would be there for him.

When people look at Steve, they see Captain America. Not Steve, not _Steven_ , and sure as hell not whoever Grant would be.

Sharp as he was, Steve's anxiety got the better of him. He overthought it; played into a worst-case scenario that simply would not happen. There was no way Bucky would ever come _close_ to putting two and two together. Not unless Steve told him first. The panic of the previous day would _not_ be the sudden horror that Steve expected. No, that would come later. That would come when _Steve_ chose to play his hand. Revealing who he was—the actual _act of meeting a friend—_ it wouldn’t be immediate. It wouldn’t be sudden. Whenever it would happen, it was up to Steve. It would be up to Steve to come forward, to come clean. That knowledge is somehow both complete relief and completely devastating.

"I'm—uh—I'm assuming you're here because you want something to read," Bucky says, pulling Steve away from his runaway thoughts. It's surprisingly coherent as far as civilian encounters go. He's smiling softly; it makes Steve _melt._

"Uh—something like that," Steve replies, trying hard not to blush, either out of adoration or out of sheer embarrassment.

Bucky nods. "You need—suggestions? Or anything?"

"That would—" Steve starts, and he can feel himself smiling, too. "That would be nice, yeah."

Bucky nods and leans back in his chair to look at someone at the other side of the library. Steve takes that as an opportunity to admire the flamingo-print button-up Bucky is wearing underneath a comfortable-looking blue cardigan. It’s a fun shirt, he thinks, and not at all surprising, considering Bucky's Instagram.

Thinking about Instagram shakes Steve out of his charmed haze. He should tell Bucky now that there’s a natural lull. He shouldn’t string him on, pretending he’s a stranger.

It should have been easy. But the words just aren’t coming.

"Hey, Dolores, could you take the circulation desk for me?" Bucky calls out, his voice low, but still carrying through the library, "And if someone comes asking for me, just tell 'em I'm with someone. Tell them to hang out near the offices, and I'll be there in a second."

"Sure thing," Dolores replies. “I’ll tell your friend to wait for you while you’re taking care of _Captain Rogers._ ”

Steve opens his mouth to say something, to tell Bucky— _The person you’re waiting for is me, the person you’re wanting to see is right here—_ but the words die a silent death in his throat. Steve Rogers, most courageous man of the twentieth century: he can jump out of airplanes without parachutes, he can even resign himself to death, but he can’t even open his mouth to introduce himself to his best friend. He can’t even reveal his lie.

It was awful. It was embarrassing. He _had_ to get some of that warbird courage back.

"Thanks! You're the best," Bucky calls out with a grin, pearly white and toothy and perfect. It's like watching the sun come up. Steve feels something soft and warm unfolding in his heart for the first time since he'd sat beside Peggy. It creates a tension in his chest, two opposing strings, tugging at his heart. Attention and guilt. Puppy love and shame. Courage and anxiety. All because of one handsome librarian and his stupid-perfect smile and the prospect of losing him when he learns he’d been deceived.

Steve is in _deep._

"So," Bucky says, standing from his seat at the desk, and Steve is blindsided again. Bucky is _tall,_ almost as tall as Steve. In a few quick strides, he's by Steve's side. They're not close enough to be touching. But they're close enough.

_He is in so deep._

Bucky smiles at him again, and _God,_ can Steve watch that smile forever. "Where do you want to start?"

**\---**

As it turns out, Bucky is _really_ good at his job.

Steve didn’t come in with a contingency plan. He _barely_ came in with an A-Plan, other than _I just need to talk to him in the real world, I just want to make our relationship more than just online,_ and that was a complete non-starter. But by the time that they circled back to the circulation desk, Steve had an armful of books on recommendation from Bucky, and he was genuinely excited to start all of them.

It didn’t hurt that getting those books meant he got to follow Bucky around for a good fifteen minutes. Nor did the fact that they were a solid guarantee that Steve would see him again.

“That should get you started,” Bucky says, settling back into his chair behind the circulation desk. “It’s a good cross-section of twenty-first century lit, nonfiction and fiction and everything in between. Or at least, it should be good enough for you to figure out what you like and what you don’t like.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, “Really.”

“Hey, it’s no problem. Just one more thing before I let you go,” Bucky says, and for a second, for the smallest, tiniest second, Steve thinks Bucky realizes who Steve is—not Captain America, living legend, but Steve, Grant, the guy Bucky has been talking to for the last few months. His friend.

For the briefest second, Steve thinks, he won’t have to start their offline relationship by admitting he’d withheld the truth. Maybe, Steve thought, the onus wouldn't be on him.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, his voice noncommittal—trying not to get his hopes up.

“Gotta get you set up with a library card,” Bucky says, and though he knew it was unlikely, though he knew that the chance for Bucky to put two and two together were beyond slim, Steve feels his heart sink.

“Oh,” he says, “Right. Yeah, yeah. Let’s do that.”

Bucky taps away on his computer, oblivious to Steve’s on-and-off emotional struggle. “Do you have an e-mail you’re comfortable giving me?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s, uh— _srogers@shield.gov_.”

“That’s a first. Guess you can’t use Yahoo,” Bucky jokes. “What about your phone number? Just in case we end up doing an interlibrary loan for you, or something.”

And there it was, another chance to admit it to Bucky—to tell him who he was. Another chance to lay it all on the line. Steve considers it—he considers giving Bucky his private cell number, and seeing if he puts two and two together. Just as the area code is about to slip out of his mouth, Bucky pushes the conversation on.

“We can skip that one, if you can’t, or if you don’t want to share,” Bucky says quickly, just the slightest hint of panic at the edge of that professionalism. Too much time has passed in silence, and Steve’s hesitation over coming clean, must have come across as hesitation for something else. “Now, that just leaves us with one last formality—I’m gonna need your birth date. Could you confirm that for me?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, with a little smile, “July fourth, nineteen-eighteen.

“So, Captain Steve Rogers, born July fourth, nineteen-eighteen, can be contacted at _srogers@shield.gov_ , all that sound right?”

“Yeah, yeah, that all sounds right.”

“Well, Captain Rogers,” Bucky says, swiping a red and blue plastic card through a magnetic strip reader. His computer lets out a chipper beep, and he pivots in his chair, holding out the card to Steve, “You’re officially a card-carrying patron of the Martinelli Public Library. Can I scan your first batch of books?”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says, sliding the books over to Bucky’s side of the counter. As he takes them, scanning them one-by-one in a quick, steady rhythm, Steve takes in the shining silver metal of Bucky’s left hand—not for the first time that day, but for the first time at depth. As soon as he notices, Steve averts his gaze, quick as he could; almost quick enough to get dizzy. He might have been a coward, but he wasn’t going to be _rude_ , too.

“Alright,” Bucky says, sliding the small tower of books back to Steve. They wobble precariously, almost ominously. “That should be it. These’ll be due in exactly a month.”

“No stamps, huh,” Steve says, offhand, “I dunno if an old guy like me can remember to return it on time, without that nice little card in the back.”

“You’re funny,” Bucky says, and he doesn’t laugh, but he’s smiling, anyway. 

 _God_ , is it a good smile. Steve stands there, watching Bucky, watching the way the light hits him. It lasts maybe for a moment. Maybe for a blink. Maybe for an eternity. He thinks about telling Bucky everything right then and there, spilling his lies and insecurities right there, leaving nothing back, like a broken dam. Like a fresh wound.

“Well—uh. Thanks for stopping by. Was a pleasure meeting you,” Bucky says, breaking that warm, dreamy haze. Steve can tell he’s starstruck, but having met many, many starstruck people, he can tell Bucky is at least genuine. “So—uh. I guess we’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, his heart thrumming in his chest—more so in anticipation than anxiety, if only by halves. “Yeah. You—you will.”

Bucky smiles. Just one more time before Steve heads out the door, a gift better than all the books in all the world’s libraries combined. Just one more perfect moment of stillness before he’s back in the world, and the white noise of the city hits him again at full force.

As if on cue, the guilt of not telling Bucky seeps back into Steve’s stomach, more intense the further he got from the library. The second he rounds the corner, Steve’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket, damn-near intense enough to burn him. He doesn't need to look at the message to know who it is. He doesn't need to look at his inbox to know what it says. Steve unlocks his phone anyway.

> _BUCKY [2:13 PM]: YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHO JUST SHOWED UP TO THE LIBRARY._

"I have an idea I will," Steve says to himself, sarcastically. Self-depreciatingly. Of course, he doesn't articulate that. Not to Bucky.

> _ME [2:15 PM]: Yeah?_

Bucky's response is almost instantaneous.

> _BUCKY [2:15 PM]: IT WAS CAPTAIN AMERICA_
> 
> _BUCKY [2:15 PM]: He wasn't in the uniform and I definitely think he wanted to stay incognito so I didn’t ask him for a picture or anything_
> 
> _BUCKY [2:16 PM]: BUT IT WAS DEFINITELY CAPTAIN AMERICA! I TALKED TO CAPTAIN AMERICA!!!!!!_

A string of emojis follows; a few American flags, a little grinning face, a variety of red hearts. Steve is simultaneously charmed and tremendously guilty. It was becoming an increasingly-common feeling.

> _BUCKY [2:19 PM]: God, I hope he liked me. I hope I didn't make a total idiot of myself_

Of course, he didn't, Steve thinks. He couldn't have been more infatuated with Bucky if Bucky had _actively_ tried.

> _ME [2:20 PM]: I'm sure he liked you. You're a nice guy._

He adds a little smiley emoji. It feels like a joke.

> _BUCKY [2:22 PM]: I wish you could've seen him. Shouldve asked him to stay to meet you, but he seemed in a rush. Avenger business, I guess_
> 
> _BUCKY [2:23 PM]: Kamala is going to be so excited when I tell her_
> 
> _BUCKY [2:23 PM]: I should text her right now and tell her_
> 
> _BUCKY [2:25 PM]: Oh wait, she’s probably in class right now or something_
> 
> _BUCKY [2:25 PM]: Dammit. Guess I’ll just wait until the next time she comes in since she’s doing “important” things like “education” and “setting up a bright future for herself” :P_

Steve suddenly feels sick, struck by yet another wave of guilt at being too chickenshit to actually _talk_ to Bucky. But there was no way he was going to go back in, less than fifteen minutes after he’d left, and confess he’d been lying to him the entire time. Instead, Steve takes time to retreat—to regroup and figure out a new strategy. As he texts Bucky back, Steve taps out his response quickly, not even taking the time to reread it before pressing send.

> _ME [2:32 PM]: Fuck. That reminds me. I actually don't think I'll be able to make it in today._

With a loud groan, Steve rests his head against the building, wondering how difficult it would be, given the serum, to slump onto the sidewalk and _die._ Bucky was gushing about how much of a hero he was. But Steve was starting to doubt if he even deserved that title. He couldn't even admit to Bucky that he'd been there to see him. He couldn't even admit to Bucky that he was _just in._

He was a coward. For the first time in his life, Steve could say that this was the fight he backed down from. That all it took was a pretty boy to make him turn from the _First Avenger_ to a coward.

Steve puts his phone away and begins the short walk back to the subway station. He feels the buzz of Bucky's reply in his pocket, but he can't bear to look at it. Not immediately. He knows how disappointed Bucky will be; he knows, generally, what the reply will say. But he just can't look at it—not with the guilt of knowing that he _did_ show, and he lied about it, all so he could make a hasty retreat. Steve gets on his train without looking at his phone. He spends the bulk of his trip building himself up enough to read Bucky's reply—and when he finally reads it, he can hardly say he’s surprised.

> _BUCKY [2:33 PM]: Oh. Bummer :(_
> 
> _BUCKY [2:34 PM]: Is everything okay?_
> 
> _BUCKY [2:57 PM]: Hey. Let me know if everything is okay, alright? I'm here for you, man_

As if the guilt couldn't get any worse, as if he couldn't just disappoint him, Steve had to go and worry the guy. He taps out a message of reassurance quickly. He at least had to do some damage control. Whatever that meant, given the circumstances.

> _ME [3:23 PM]: Everything's good. Just had a bunch of stuff come up at once._

He presses send and pockets his phone. His stop is coming up, anyway. As soon as the carriage doors open, he leaves the station in a rush, hoping to get home as soon as he can, trying to ignore the buzz in his pocket. Steve manages about three blocks before he checks his phone again.

> _BUCKY [3:30 PM]: Oh okay. Good_
> 
> _BUCKY [3:33 PM]: Just let me know if you need me, okay? I mean it, I'm here for you_

God, what a good guy. Steve didn’t deserve him.

> _ME [3:55 PM]: Yeah. Yeah, of course. Thanks for caring about me, Bucky. I don’t know what I would do without you. :)_
> 
> _ME [3:56 PM]: Now get back to work, don't want you getting in trouble because of me._
> 
> _BUCKY [4:00 PM]: It's DEAD, Grant. No one wants to be in the library when it's a day like this. Not even I wanna be in the library on a day like this. And I WORK HERE_
> 
> _BUCKY [4:00 PM]: Besides, how am I supposed to go on with the rest of my day after I’d met CAPTAIN AMERICA?? Not possible. I am no longer in my body right now. They should just let me go home now because this is the high of my life_

Steve feels warmth creeping at his cheeks, quickly spreading into a full-body blush.

> _ME [4:01 PM]: I think Captain America would want you to go back to work. :P_
> 
> _BUCKY [4:06 PM]: Yeah, FINE. I guess you’re right. I don’t like it, but I GUESS you’re right_

Bucky's text is followed by a line of little laughing monkey emojis. The internet equivalent of a playful punch in the arm, or that fantastic grin of his. Steve, in spite of his guilt, feels himself grinning too, ear-to-ear.

> _BUCKY [4:11 PM]: Talk to you later, though?_
> 
> _ME [3:11 PM]: Always. :)_

**\---**

As much as he would rather crawl into bed or onto his couch and sleep, Steve decides it’s time to push on. In spite of a nagging urge in the back of his mind to curl into himself, Steve decides, it's time to regroup. It's time to do the bravest thing one could do: self-inspect. Steve Rogers, in spite of how much he hated himself for his own fears, decided it was time for contemplation.

With his head still spinning and his heart still thrumming, Steve puts on his favorite record, pulls out his charcoals, and tries to sketch. He begins to block out shapes—not of any particular face or any particular object—just shapes for the sake of shapes. Something to help him clear his head. Something to help him breathe.

As he sketches—contouring nebulous blobs and fractured grids—Steve thinks back to Sam’s advice the day before, the advice he’d so-easily forgotten, no matter how fresh it was.

If he wanted Bucky in his life—and he wanted Bucky in his life, more so after meeting him in the real world—he had to be frank. He had to be honest. He had to be open.

More than anything, he had to _speak to Bucky._

But speaking to Bucky—revealing the truth, revealing that their entire friendship was built off half-lies and obscured truths—it was a massive breach. Steve, who had been lied to before, Steve, who had fallen prey to the manipulation of his trust—of all people, knew that. Steve, who laid his life on the line to take down Hydra-in-S.H.I.E.L.D., knew that. He knew that there was a very real possibility that Bucky would leave him, and with good reason. There was a very real possibility that Bucky would leave their conversation and never come back. And Steve—still fragile as bird bones, even after the serum—wasn’t sure if he could bear that conversation face-to-face, in the flesh.

Steve chews his lower lip, a middle-ground solution suddenly clear. Maybe he had to stop rushing headfirst into things. He didn’t need to fall face-forward into knowing Bucky; he could keep that physical distance but still officially meet him. All he had to do was _call_ Bucky. All he had to do was open up FaceTime.

It was easy enough. He could introduce himself to Bucky, he could reveal his truth to him, without having to risk being so close, only to be rejected. He could keep that distance and negotiate their relationship without his body clamming up and betraying his intentions. They could establish their relationship, the risks, and their hopes—and _then_ they could take it into the real world, afterward. _If_ there was going to be an afterward.

All Steve had to do was gather up a little bit of courage. All he had to do was _move forward._

Steve glances out his window. It’s just past sundown. The sky is tinged a deep maroon, slowly fading into blue-black as the minutes tick on. Steve dusts his charcoal-stained fingers on his pants, a bad habit of his that even his brief time in art school couldn’t break. He couldn’t not speak to Bucky, especially now that he’s a card-carrying member of the Martinelli Public Library.

 _Especially_ now that he found a good middle-ground solution.

It was still an hour before the Martinelli closed. Bucky wouldn’t be free for a while. Steve, to keep himself from changing his mind yet again, begins to make himself dinner. That, at least, would be a task, a mission, something to focus on. A short-term goal, before he made the plunge. Dinner, for a supersoldier, would take long enough to prepare, anyway.

He falls into a rhythm. Rinse, chop, and roast vegetables. Slice, season, and sear steaks, repeat. It’s enough to feed a small battalion, or a single supersoldier. Steve might not necessarily the best at making it—he sure won’t be a chef any time soon—but steak and vegetables is one of the few things he knows how to cook. Steak and vegetables, and asparagus tarts, and cabbage soup, and apple cake. The latter two, thanks to his mother. The former two, thanks to Natasha and a weekend spent binge-watching Food Network.

By the time Steve finishes cooking, the city has fully embraced the night. As he eats, Steve can see people from the neighborhood in their own regular routines—young people heading to trendy, local bars, professionals coming home, the odd elder couple going dancing. Maybe Bucky is among them, somewhere in Brooklyn. Maybe he’s riding the subway home from work, flipping through that thick librarian's catalog again. Steve glances at the clock—almost ten, almost two hours after the Martinelli closes—and taps out a message. His moment of faith—or something approximating it.  

> _ME [9:51 PM]: You home?_

Steve steadies himself, taking in a deep breath, pacing from his bedroom, to the kitchen, and back again. He knows this is an opportunity to back off from this friendship, to keep it at arm's length, to keep the wall of internet anonymity standing strong. He knows, if he wanted, he could double back. But he also has the _need_ to be open and honest to Bucky, especially after running into him and not saying a thing. It isn't even a question as to whether he _should_ or not. He _will_. He has his response typed up and ready to go before Bucky even replies.

> _BUCKY [10:00 PM]: Just got in. What's up?_
> 
> _ME: [10:01 PM]: You got FaceTime?_

Steve watches the screen intently as Bucky types up a response. He feels that familiar tension welling up in his hands again, pooling in his chest, in his throat. He might fight aliens and killer robots and destroy fascist sleeper cells regularly, but those three dots floating in that neutral gray chat bubble are somehow the most terrifying thing Steve has ever seen.

To add insult to anxiety, Bucky's response is almost comically short when it comes.

> _BUCKY [10:05 PM]: I do_
> 
> _BUCKY [10:05 PM]: Why?_
> 
> _BUCKY [10;06 PM]:_ _You okay?_

Steve sighs, and the words come to him slow. Painfully slow. And when he types, he is careful and deliberate, taking time to press only all the right keys. Even still, when he finishes, when Steve rereads his text to Bucky—his Sunday confessional from a wholly different kind of screen—he almost can't bring himself to press send.

> _ME [10:11 PM]: Yeah. I'm okay....Look, I have something to say. I actually did make it up to the library today. But I didn't introduce myself to you. And I'm really sorry I didn't. I feel AWFUL about it. But…I have some things I need to tell you, some things I think we should get out of the way ahead of time. I think it's best we do it face-to-face. Just over FaceTime...Would that be okay?_

He can't take it. Steve throws his phone onto his bed, pacing nervously around his room as he waits for Bucky's response. He thinks of what might come next, what Bucky might say. Any number of scenarios could play out. Bucky might say yes. Given that, he might recognize Steve as Captain America and be upset. Rightfully so. He might feel betrayed and want to cut things off entirely—and that would be the last thing Steve wants to happen, but not something out of the picture entirely. He might say no. They might end up back at square one. Steve doesn't know if that would be better or worse.

Bucky, Steve thinks, his heart all but beating out of his chest, might not reply at all.

Steve is jerked out of this train of thought, pulled out of strategizing for the worst-case scenarios, when his phone chimes on his bed, the happy pinging almost mocking in its lightness.

> _BUCKY [10:26 PM]: Yeah. That would be okay._

Steve takes a deep breath and types out one last response, one last message as Grant, before plunging headfirst into digital uncertainty.

> _ME [10:27 PM]: Okay. Just give me a second to get ready._

Steve settles down to FaceTime with Bucky, the ringing of the connection tone painfully slow. Absentmindedly, Steve begins bouncing his leg and drumming his fingers against his desk. The anticipation is almost too much. It feels like his cells are vibrating out of his body. Suddenly, that dull, ominous connection tone cuts out. Steve, too, stops, his jittery leg and impatient hand going still. The screen fades—from Bucky's profile picture, to black, and finally, to their connection—and Steve heaves out a deep breath.

Even over their connection, even after a day of work, even looking frustrated and upset and ready to tear Steve a new one, Bucky is still so, so handsome. All Steve can do is smile.

"Hi," Steve says, as Bucky's lips part open slowly. His demeanor shifts entirely, disappointment giving way to confusion, clear as day on his face. "It's me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone, still alive. barely, but still alive. i understand that it's been a while since i've updated. things in my life got pretty rough - i made a post about it [on my tumblr](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/post/158892547867/on-the-subject-of-hot-librarian-au-why-i-havent), if you're interested in the details of that. rest assured, i'm still finishing this fic. if i will abandon this work - which i don't plan on doing - i will make a post about it. but i have big plans for this fic, just understand that my life is in an extremely unstable place right now.
> 
> on that note, a few things about this chapter: 
> 
>  - i've been yelling for a million years about [this amazing bucky](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/post/158251053447/comedicdrama-hes-shy-by-comedicdrama-x) that [comedicdrama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/comedicdrama) ([here is their tumblr](https://comedicdrama.tumblr.com/)) made for this fic, during the beefy bucky birthday exchange. i'm seriously so obsessed with it. give them attention and love and everything because holy shit, every time i look at this i get butterflies. this bucky is so #dreamboy ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> \- also: check out [this beautiful, soft bucky having some time to himself in avengers park](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/post/159088016782/cos-izzy-and-i-were-talking-about) by the always-amazing [phoenixgryphon](http://phoenixgryphon.tumblr.com/). i bet he's thinking of his dream boy, captain america.
> 
> \- soundtrack for writing this chapter is tacocat, specifically, ["spring break up."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yEWMttZn_II) don't think on it too much. seriously. 
> 
> \- [here is the npr story](http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2017/03/30/522091683/back-from-the-dead-reported-sightings-fuel-hope-for-return-of-tasmanian-tigers) that steve is listening to. again, don't think on it too much. ;)
> 
> \- and [here is the bit of how it's made](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6TIXDbxtzMY) that steve was watching while waiting for sam's call. it's a great show to watch when you have anxiety. or when you need something to fall asleep to. in case you need either resource. 
> 
> \- i almost wrote in steve forgetting his metrocard, but i decided it was unrealistic for any reasonable new yorker to have their wallet but forget their metrocard. also, this probably won't come up in the fic, but in the same style of other limited-edition metrocards, i'm 100% sure there are avengers metrocards out there in the world. steve didn't get any of them, but tony _absolutely did_. clint, too, but he lost it. poor guy. 
> 
> \- finally, in case you're under any sort of impression that james "bucky" barnes, hot librarian extraordinaire, has any sort of reasonable fashion sense, the flamingo shirt he's wearing is basically a tackier version of [this shirt](https://cdnd.lystit.com/photos/0cdd-2015/02/06/marc-jacobs-multicolor-mens-flamingo-printed-shirt-product-1-27633203-1-375039897-normal.jpeg) from the [marc jacobs spring 2015](http://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/spring-2015-menswear/marc-jacobs) collection. imagine this flamingo shirt except cheaper, under a cardigan like [this asos cardgian](https://cdna.lystit.com/photos/2013/11/07/asos-navy-cardigan-in-lightweight-jersey-product-1-14752606-573744316.jpeg), and you've got the bucky barnes #lookbook. hot librarian couture. etc. 
> 
> i've gotta meet puppies. see you next time, everyone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> face, off.

"What. The fuck."

Bucky stares at Steve, sharp-eyed and unblinking; intense on the screen as he would be in the flesh. He’s close—painfully close, just on the other end of that screen—but so distant, so unreachable, so _untouchable_ , at the same time. He could be a short subway ride away. He could be within walking distance. He could very well be next door. Or he could be far-off, lost somewhere in the vast expanse of their shared city.

Emotionally, Bucky is just as indiscernible. Despite his sharp, colorful language, his expression is just on the edge of neutral. Clearly confused, but otherwise, entirely unreadable. It makes Steve’s heart feel like a wild thing, desperate and afraid and thrashing against his ribcage, bound to break out of his chest. But, rabbit-hearted and nebulously brave, Steve pushes on.

"I—uh. I took a look at some of the books you recommended earlier,” he says, feeling a blush creep onto his face. It’s a minor effort, staying calm. “They seem really good. You have—you have really good taste."

He holds up one of the books Bucky recommended, a thin non-fiction thing about space travel, meant to act as the companion to another, fictional book about Mars. Steve hasn’t really started on it. He’s barely opened the thing, but it _does_ look interesting. Not that Steve would lie to Bucky about _that._ He’d done more than his fair share of lying to the guy already. It was time to move forward, this time, with nothing but the truth.

“Holy shit,” Bucky says, his voice quiet and eyes laser-focused on the book in Steve’s hand. Proof of reality. Proof of Steve’s lies. His voice isn’t deadpan. It’s not angry. But it’s not excited, either. The way Bucky speaks isn’t filled with joy, but it’s filled with _something._ Maybe _everything._ Maybe that’s why he was so hard to parse—maybe he was just as unsure of how he felt as Steve was. “ _Holy shit._ ”

Steve ducks his head bashfully, or painfully, or nervously. The churning sea of emotions in his gut really make it hard to tell if he’s flattered or if he’s hiding his face in fear of _what comes next._

"So. Yeah, um. This is me. Grant. Well. Steve. I actually prefer Steve. It's uh. Nice to meet."

Bucky stares wide-eyed at the screen for a few seconds, not saying anything. Steve feels his pulse pick up, his heartbeat thrumming nervously, anxiety telegraphing into his wrists. He wants to bounce his leg, to drum on his desk, to do something physical to channel the anxiety out of him. He wants to wear himself out. He wants to do _something_ to fill that void, to release all the pent-up energy generated by Bucky’s weighty silence. After about twenty seconds of quiet tension, he can’t take it anymore. "Look, I just—I'm sorry, Bucky, I—"

“You’re Captain America.”

Steve blinks. The way Bucky says it—the way he breaks his own silence—doesn’t seem mad, but it doesn’t seem entirely forgiving, either. “Yeah, I mean—sometimes. That’s my call sign. But really, I prefer Steve.”

“My internet friend is Captain America. I’ve been talking to Captain America this entire time,” Bucky says, all but echoing himself. “I was waiting for you. I saw you. But I didn’t realize you were _you._ So I helped you out. I helped you. I was just barely keeping cool trying to impress you, Captain America, and when you left, I turned around and _totally_ gushed about you. _To you._ ”

Steve cringes. “Look, I didn’t mean to—I wanted to—I’m. I’m not proud of that.”

“ _God_ ,” Bucky groans, and here it comes, Steve thinks—the end of the only semi-normal friendship he’d ever had. He prepares for the death blow, for Bucky’s mercy kill. _Here lies the friendship of Steven Grant Rogers and James Barnes. It lived a short, wonderful life, and died a slow, painful death. It leaves behind, for Steve: all his lies, and one broken heart._

“Bucky, I—I’m really sorry about doing that. I am. I—I was just—you’re just so—“

"My dad had pictures of you in the study the entire time I was growing up. He made sure we knew all about you,” Bucky says suddenly, interrupting Steve’s sputtering, flailing attempts to explain himself. Steve blinks, completely unprepared for that. He doesn’t have a response to that. How could _anyone_ respond to that? At least Bucky continues speaking, saving him the embarrassment of trying to turn that into something he can respond to.

“There are pictures of me, dressed up as you, from ages three to eleven. I had a _poster of you_ in my bedroom. I was _struggling to be professional with you_. And then when you left, I freaked out like a teenager about you. To you. _Oh my God._ "

Bucky, seemingly consumed by his own anxieties, groans, low. He buries his face into his hands, his hair going all messy. It really doesn’t make sense to Steve—he expected something more explosive, something more of a clear break-up. It’s probably one of the last things Steve could have predicted Bucky doing.  

It’s also probably one of the cutest things Steve has ever seen.

“I—” Steve starts, “I’m sorry?”

Bucky peeks up at Steve out from behind his hands. Steve flushes. Maybe that was the wrong kind of response. Maybe he’s invited the final goodbyes into this conversation. Maybe he should have just stayed quiet.

Too late now.

“No, no, I mean—I really _am_ sorry. I just—I didn’t—I didn’t think we would get to where we are, and—I—yeah. I should have told you who I was a lot earlier. I should have told you that I’m Grant and Grant is me. That was—that was really, really shitty of me,” Steve says, looking Bucky straight in the face. “But I wanna make it better. I still want you in my life. If you’ll have me. If you’re willing to take that risk.”

Silence. Stillness. Those sharp, stunning blue eyes, staring straight back at him. Like a one-man firing squad.

Steve continues.

“I mean. It’s not a walk in the park being friends with an Avenger. There _is_ a risk. There’s the public spotlight. There’s the danger. And I can’t tell you that I know how it’ll play out. I really—I haven’t had any friends outside of you, and a couple guys my age—you know. My _real_ age. And I guess, too, some of the other Avengers, but even then, most of ‘em are _work friends,_ and I’m not nearly as close to them as I am you—and I—”

He stops, sharp and sudden, as realization dawns on him, going silent the second he realizes he’s rambling. Worse, rambling _and_ oversharing. It’s an anxious habit—something that the serum and stage weren’t able to train out of him. With a deep breath, he continues on, finding his focus again. This isn’t about him. Not entirely. This is about Bucky. This video call—this FaceTime session—is not for his own sake. It’s for Bucky.

Steve, above all, remembers to reiterate that. 

“Shit. You’re pretty much my best friend, Buck,” he says, trying not to go pink as he says it. For the first time since they started, he finds himself compelled to look away; to break that contact, if just for a second. “I wanna let you know that. I wanna let you know _me._ Not just the guy I am on Instagram, but _all_ of me. But I’m not gonna subject you to something you didn’t sign up for. That’s—that’s all I wanted to say. Other than, you know. I’m sorry. For everything. I—I didn’t wanna hurt you.”

Bucky looks up, shaking his hair out of his face. There’s something in the way that he looks at Steve, from across the screen, all endearing and tumultuous and sharp, all at the same time, that Steve can’t read. On the internet, over texts, Bucky was easy. He was excitable, understandable. Steve had gotten used to the contours of their relationship.

But in person, he’s something else entirely. His fun, strange, friendly personality translates, but with slight differences and added surprises. Bucky, in the flesh, is a puzzle box, a labyrinth, a mystery wrapped in big, comfy sweaters. It’s like starting all over again; like finding him, once more, for the first time.

And Steve is up for the challenge, if only Bucky will have him. 

“Okay,” Bucky says, eventually, taking a deep breath. Deep as a chasm. Like unshouldering a very, very heavy weight.

He doesn’t continue. Not immediately. Steve doesn’t make a sound. It’s clear that Bucky is building up to what he wants to say, finding the footing to say what he _needs_ to say. Steve, at least, gives him that distance. He lets Bucky have that space.  

“First of all, yeah. _Yeah._ I _was_ mad when I learned you’d ghosted on me. I was mad as _hell_. You can’t just abandon a guy like that. So don’t forget that,” Bucky says, once he’s gathered his thoughts. Steve feels that churning in his stomach again, storms of guilt wrecking his insides. There was no safe harbor from hurricanes of your own making. He tries not to think about it as Bucky continues. “Second of all—I was mad as hell, and I’m not gonna say what you did was okay. It wasn’t _._ But—I forgive you for it.”

Steve blinks. For a second, he thinks that he’s misheard Bucky, or everything unfolding in front of him is only how he _hopes_ it could be. It’s only when Bucky continues speaking that Steve realizes that he didn’t mishear him; that everything that’s happening—Bucky’s reaction and all—is real.

“I get it. I get where you’re at. You had your reasons to lie, and reasons to keep secrets, and you made mistakes with those secrets. As mad as I was—mad as I still kind of _am_ —when you told me you’d visited the library without even so much as saying _hello,_ I get it. So I don’t wanna break it off. Because I want you in my life, too. I want to get to know you outside of Instagram, too. You made a mistake. But you and I— _we_ —we can move on,” Bucky says, steady, calm, and far more forgiving and friendly than Steve could ever have expected. Far more than he would have ever afforded _himself._ "You're my best friend, too, Steve. Hell, I'm probably closer to you than I am the people at the library. So I guess, what I’m saying is, I forgive you. I'm not happy about what you did, but I'm forgiving you. Okay?”

Steve nods, swallowing hard. He feels light—like all the guilt, all the self-doubt, all the accumulated lies of all those months of friendship had begun to ebb. Like he was finally beginning to _breathe_ for the first time. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay. Thank you. Thank you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding back. Maybe the corners of his mouth are turned up. Maybe he’s got the beginnings of a smile. Steve can’t tell, but given Bucky’s surprising forgiveness, he likes to hope. “Yeah. Okay. But you still owe me a plain explanation. I’m at least gonna ask for that much. I think—I think I’m at least entitled to that. Why’d you ghost on me, Steve? Why didn’t you just— _tell me?_ ”

The revelation of _my friend Grant is Captain America_ seems to have stripped all the heat—all the potential explosiveness—out of the situation, and that forgiveness has Steve feeling light, but when Bucky finally poses that question to him, when he looks Steve straight-on and makes Steve confront his own failures, Steve feels no less guilty.

"I dunno,” Steve replies, his words trailing into a sigh. “A few reasons, I guess. Anxiety. Apprehension. The potentials of it all. Not thinking everything through before running headfirst into this. I mean—we've talked about this vaguely, but I have a _lot_ of baggage that comes with me, Bucky. Besides the whole, _American icon, leader of the Avengers, almost died in the Arctic, born 'bout a hundred years ago_ thing.”

This is the first time Steve has ever told anyone any of this. People have heard bits and pieces, sure. His therapists—former and current, for one. Sam and Natasha, in the few short years of their odd friendship, have heard enough to piece things together. But this is the first time Steve has admitted everything to anyone, all at once. This is the first time Steve has let himself be this open; the first time he’s let himself be this _exposed._ He’s still not sure what to make of it. The feeling of catharsis, the very specific freedom that comes with allowing himself to be _vulnerable and exposed,_ was going to get some time to get used to, at the very least.

“And, you know,” Steve continues, trying to parse vulnerability. Trying to parse _truth._ Trying to parse _openness and transparency._ It leaves him feeling serious and heavy again, as much as it frees him. What a complicated feeling. “Some of the baggage is new stuff, stuff I’m still trying to _begin_ to figure out. And some of my baggage is holdovers from the ‘40s that I'm still dealing with. And I'm _gonna_ be dealing with, probably for a long, long time. So—yeah. That’s kind of why I left you hanging. I really didn’t mean to. I just kinda—couldn’t stop myself. Not an excuse, but you know. Now you know.”

If he’s going to be honest with Bucky, he might as well be honest about _everything._ As much as it makes him want to run; as much as it makes him want to _retreat_ , as heavy and as serious and as paradoxically light as it makes him feel, Steve decided—he’s going to be honest. He’s going to be open now. About everything.

"There’s, uh,” he continues, “There’s also the fact that you kinda blew a guy away, but that’s—uh. That’s another conversation entirely.”

Steve watches Bucky carefully, feeling both relieved and overwhelmed for letting out the full truth. Part of him thinks that he should have kept some things to himself; that maybe there were secrets that he couldn’t—shouldn’t—share, even with this new start and new commitment. But when Bucky looks at him, miles or minutes away, Steve doesn’t feel like he’s made a misstep. Bucky opens his mouth to say something, but closes it, looking coy. _Smiling_. Teeth and all. Steve, in his infinite relief brought about by that smile, takes that as a win.

"But look,” Steve says, barreling forward, pointedly _not_ acknowledging that he’d all but admitted he thinks Bucky is _cute_ , “I really _do_ feel like shit for doing this. I should’ve just been upfront with you when I showed up. I shouldn’t have strung you along.”

"Hell no, you shouldn’t have," Bucky says, seriously, but not threateningly. Not anymore, at least. Not like he was for the few seconds before he realized what was going on or who he was talking to. Steve doesn’t know if that leverage—that identity—is an advantage or not. “Abandoning a guy is a really, really shitty thing to do, Steve Rogers.”

"And I know it was. _Is._ Which is why I wanna make it up to you. Or start making it up to you, at least," Steve says, "You gonna be free tomorrow? We can—I dunno, grab a cup of coffee, or something? Not as the neighborhood librarian and Captain America. But as—you know, me and you. Bucky and Steve."

Steve looks up, and Bucky is smiling again. It’s smaller this time, less surprised, but no less brilliant. For the second time in their conversation, Steve feels compelled to look away. As if staring directly at Bucky, like staring directly at the sun, will be blinding.

"I've got a half-hour lunch break at noon, if that works for you," Bucky offers.

"Noon? Yeah, noon works. I'll bring you coffee, meet you at the library, and we can walk around the park," Steve says, trying not to think of it as a date, or at least, trying not to think of it as _romantic._ "It'll be fun."

"Yeah," Bucky says softly, "Yeah, it will be."

They smile at each other, silent, but not awkwardly. All the anxiety of the past few days, has, slow but steady, begun to dissipate, and Steve feels warm, the same sort of warmth that he felt after one of their long text conversations, except brighter, stronger, _more_. Amplified, by an incomprehensible, indescribable amount.  

Eventually, as much as he wishes he could enjoy it forever, Steve breaks that warm, halcyon silence. "I should—I should let you go. You probably need to get some sleep. Gotta be out, bright and early."

"Ugh, don't remind me," Bucky groans, resting his face on his desk dramatically, "The only reason I even manage to show up is because by the time I’m out the door, my bloodstream is _pretty much just coffee_. And it's been _so_ dead these days. It's _always_ dead 'round this time, but this year especially. I'm thinking of picking up a language, or knitting, you know. Something to do when I’m not working with the collections, when I’m at the front desk."

“No shit,” Steve laughs. “I dunno if that’s the best use of the library’s time, Bucky.”

"Mm, yeah. Okay. I guess you're right," Bucky says. “Guess the best I can do is wait with bated for _Captain America to rescue me_.”

“Dunno if there’s a box on the mission paperwork to check for _unbearable boredom,_ but for you? I’ll make it work,” Steve jokes.

“If anyone can make it work, it’s you,” Bucky says, grinning that perfect grin again.

A lull. A beat. A comfortable silence.

"Well. Right. I'm gonna call it a night. You should, too. Go to bed, Bucky. I mean it this time," Steve says breaking that stillness. His voice is stern, almost like his _Captain America_ voice. But teasing.

"Fine. You're right," Bucky says, playfully defeated. He hums, and looks like he's considering Steve. Not like prey. But like one considers art, or a sunset, or a particularly beautiful day. "Well. It was nice meeting. Again. For the first time."

"Yeah. It was,” Steve says, feeling light. Happy.

“Meet you _for real_ tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah. Absolutely. I'll—uh, I'll be there tomorrow with coffee. Noon, on the dot. No chickening out this time," Steve says, and he beams when that's met with a soft, short laugh. While he wishes he could keep this conversation going, he's excited—not terrified—of meeting in the morning. "So, um. Good night, Bucky."

Bucky smiles softly, his head tilted into the crook of his elbow. It's a beautiful thing. "Good night. Steve."

As their call ends and the connection fades out, Steve sits at his desk, feeling happy and content in a way that had, somewhere along the way, become almost foreign to him. It's only when he gets a text from Natasha, a good morning, all the way on the other side of the world, that Steve realizes he's been staring, at his screen—completely, overwhelmingly smitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after last chapter's cliffhanger: a resolution, a way forward, or something resembling it. 
> 
> some notes: 
> 
> \- first, thank you for all the sweet vibes from everyone. i tried to reply to everything, but just generally - thank you so, so much. all those words of support and good vibes mean more than words could ever say. thank you. 
> 
> \- that said, everything is still happening too much for me. again, as i said in the first chapter, i can't promise any sort of unified posting schedule, but i will try my best to update fairly regularly, and i'm planning on finishing this fic. so, yeah. life is still life, but this fic is still going along strong. 
> 
> \- better news: happy national library week, everyone! and national bookmobile day, too. [here's some fun stuff about national library week, on the npr tumblr](http://npr.tumblr.com/post/159496765239/digitalpubliclibraryofamerica-in-honor-of). bucky would probably celebrate national library week extensively. i imagine he would have events lined up — going to schools with books, having a "library card registration drive," hosting events at the martinelli — _and_ he would post using every possible filter and hashtag and social media tag imaginable. he definitely wouldn't be in front of the camera for the [video challenges](http://www.ala.org/conferencesevents/national-library-week-2017-video-challenge), but he'd try to talk to everyone else working at the martinelli about it. 
> 
> \- bucky dressed up as captain america is probably one of my favorite images in the world. (buckycap in general is one of my favorite things in the world, but that's neither here nor there). expect more of that image in the future of this fic. i know there's a particular thing i want to write relating to it, but i don't know if i can fit it into the events yet to unfold. but we'll see ;) 
> 
> \- the two books mentioned in this chapter are [mary roach's _packing for mars_](https://smile.amazon.com/Packing-Mars-Curious-Science-Life/dp/0393339912/ref=sr_1_fkmr2_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1492033650&sr=8-1-fkmr2&keywords=mary+renault+mars) and [andy weir's _the martian_](https://smile.amazon.com/Martian-Andy-Weir/dp/0553418025/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1492033677&sr=8-1&keywords=the+martian). i haven't read _packing for mars_ , but i've read mary roach's _stiff_ , and i really enjoy her nonfiction writing style. i'm still working on reading _the martian_ , but i really enjoy that book, too, and i think that it is a good jumping-off point for someone who's interested in getting back into reading. 
> 
> \- i chose those books partially because i was familiar with them, partially because they're popular, partially so i could laugh at my own joke about bucky and [chris beck from _the martian_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVspdH-U2XE), but also because i think it's a good logical jumping-off point from bucky's interest in cheeseball pulp novels. so. yeah. 
> 
> \- [la sera's "break my heart"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a70zvIOuxR0) is the unofficial writing background music to this. it's probably a lot more thematically-similar to the contents of last chapter's writing music, if only slightly.
> 
> that's all i've got for now. i'm probably going to go back and make some minor edits to the previous chapters (for readability, clarity, and to avoid unintentionally using the same phrases nine billion times) at some point, so keep an eye out for that. see you all when i see you, and thanks again for the support and good vibes!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> new york, in bloom.

Even as the promise of coffee with Bucky looms in the not-too-distant future, Steve still finds himself defaulting to his post-run routine. Find a breakfast place—something local, avoid Starbucks if possible. Grab breakfast. Grab coffee. _Text Bucky_.

With a giant bowl of oatmeal, a black coffee, and a copy of the _New York Times,_ Steve, comfortably tucked in a back corner booth of a local diner, taps out a message—his little way of saying _good morning._

> _ME [9:22 AM]: Quick question._
> 
> _BUCKY [9:22 AM]: I’ll try to give you a quick answer :P_

Steve smiles to himself. After their talk the night before, he can hear those words in Bucky’s voice—the tenor, the pitch, the slight drawl of his native New York accent—clear as a bell.  

> _ME [9:24 AM]: What kind of coffee do you want? You want sugar and cream? What about flavor pumps?_
> 
> _BUCKY [9:29 AM]: Surprise me ;)_
> 
> _ME [9:30 AM]: Not helpful. Give me some specifics here._
> 
> _BUCKY [9:30 AM]: Seriously, I’ll drink whatever_

Steve frowns. 

> _ME [9:31 AM]: I just don’t want to give you something that you're not going to want, or that will make you sick._
> 
> _BUCKY [9:35 AM]: Anything’s good, really. Long as it’s got caffeine in it, I’ll drink it. Just show up :)_

That narrows it down to _death before decaf,_ but not by much. Steve chooses not to worry too much about it—trying to pry a specific order out of Bucky would just stress _both_ of them out. He just had to play it cool, play it natural, and things would work out on their own. Even if he got something Bucky hated. 

At least, that’s what he was trying to tell himself.  _  
_

> _ME [9:36 AM]: Alright, alright. But let a guy down easy if you hate it, yeah?_
> 
> _BUCKY [9:38 AM]: And lie to an American legend? Pretty sure that’s a federal crime_

Bucky follows up that message with a chain of emojis, little smiling monkeys. Steve grins at this, tapping out a quick message before digging into his oatmeal. Couldn’t let it get cold, after all. No one—not even Steve, who grew up on boiled cabbage and liver loaf—was fond of cold, clumpy oatmeal. Now _that’s_ something the future never found a solution for.

> _ME [9:40 AM]: But lying to your pal, Steve Rogers, isn’t. Don’t see a problem there._

Attached, a small string of different smiling emojis. Not nearly as many as Bucky usually attaches, but enough.

> _BUCKY [9:40 AM]: Dunno if that’d hold up in court :P_
> 
> _ME [9:42 AM]: I’d vouch for you!_
> 
> _BUCKY [9:42 AM]: That’s……actually really reassuring_
> 
> _BUCKY [9:42 AM]: Lol_
> 
> _ME [9:45 AM]: Any time. :)_
> 
> _ME [9:45 AM]: Anyway, see you in a few hours?_
> 
> _BUCKY [9:45 AM]: See you :DDD_

Steve smiles, feeling bubbly and warm and grounded, completely independent of his hearty, homey breakfast. The two-plus hours until their meeting would pass by in a flash; noon—and Bucky—would be there before he knew it. Steve, working on a time crunch, pockets his phone, folds up his copy of the _Times,_ and finishes his breakfast quickly; fast as only a supersoldier with _plans_ could. By the time he leaves the diner, having left a tip many, many times the cost of his breakfast, it’s late into the morning, and the city is sunny and warm and beautiful in its infinite chaos, as if the world was just as exhilarated by Steve’s day as he was.

Of all the spring mornings Steve spent living in New York City—his life before the war included—this morning, with all the hopes and potential and _warmth_ held within, had to be one of the best.

**\---**

When Steve arrives at his apartment, right in time with his usual routine, he immediately throws himself into getting ready, into making himself _presentable_ , for Bucky.

He _could_ go in his running clothes. It would be a last-ditch option, if it came down to it. After all, Steve is _more than familiar_ with how great his leggings make his ass look. But his clothes stink of sweat, and he knows would feel frumpy and unprepared and underdressed, especially in comparison to Bucky’s fun, soft sweaters and comfy, semi-professional cardigans. Especially given the simple fact that Steve, enamored with Bucky already, wants to make the best impression of his life.  

With that weight settled square on his shoulders—displacing the world’s responsibility, if only briefly—Steve rushes through half his wardrobe, going through every single button-up and shirt and tight, flattering pair of jeans he owns. His mission is clear and locked in sight: find the perfect outfit for his first _official_ meeting with Bucky. Nothing too formal. Nothing too casual. This was his first real chance to show Bucky who he was, his first real chance for Bucky to get to know _Steve._ Not just _Captain America in a pair of slacks._ His Dodgers shirt and a pair of worn, faded, boot-cut jeans was a little _too_ familiar. Any number of his crisp white button-ups and khakis wasn’t familiar _enough_. The neon blue polo that Tony bought him, the one that cost about half as much as his rent check—that wouldn’t see the light of day. Eventually, after what felt like hours of intense scrutiny of his own fashion sense, Steve settles on something, just the right mix of comfortable and stylish. Friendly, but not _sweatpants_ friendly. It’s simple. It’s nice, even by twenty-first century standards. Even by _his_ standards.

Nice. But not nice enough—Steve thinks, as he taps out a message to his favorite twenty-something superspy—to forego the ever-important second opinion. 

> _ME [10:19 AM]: Yea or nay?_

He quickly snaps a photo of his outfit—a light blue denim button-up tucked into dark blue jeans, all brought together with his favorite dark blue baseball cap—and sends it to Natasha. Ninety-something or not, Steve had the mirror selfie down to an art. Even she granted him that. And Steve was _damn_ proud of it.

Natasha takes longer than usual to reply. She’s still far quicker than Sam, quicker than most people, but there’s an unusual delay there, something that speaks to her position, somewhere across the Atlantic, thousands of miles away, relying on outdated tech in the middle of nowhere.  

> _NATASHA [10:27 AM]: Unbutton the top button. Roll up the sleeves. And ditch the hat. You look like you’re running for Senate in a red district._

Frowning, Steve taps out his reply.

> _ME [10:27 AM]: That bad?_
> 
> _NATASHA [10:32 AM]: You look like you’re going to a county fair._
> 
> _NATASHA [10:32 AM]: You look like you’re about to give a speech on small-town values._
> 
> _NATASHA [10:33 AM]: You look like you went to Princeton. Or Stanford. You look like you pledged Mu Chi Upsilon. And you LIKED IT. You look like KING fratboy, except grown up and working in government because his dad's the governor._
> 
> _STEVE [10:34 AM]: Alright, alright, I get it. No hat._
> 
> _NATASHA [10:38 AM]: What is this for? Is this for A DATE?_

Steve snorts. He wishes. Natasha sure is good at her job. She knew. She had him pinned down immediately. Not that he would ever admit that to her. Not yet. 

> _ME [10:38 AM]: No, Nat. I’m not going on a date. I just want to look nice, is all._
> 
> _NATASHA [10:41 AM]: Sure. Let me know how it goes))))))_
> 
> _ME [10:41 AM]: Good-bye, Nat._
> 
> _NATASHA [10:46 AM]: Goodbye, grandpa. Good luck on your date. Mission report tonight))))))_

He shakes his head. _Natasha_. That Natasha. Nonetheless, he does as she suggests, and _yeah._ Steve never considered himself as having a face for politics, not even during the USO tour, but even he realizes the baseball cap, with the rest of his outfit, makes him look like the democratic frontrunner in an election year. He pulls it off quickly, putting it back on his dresser, next to his aviators and a neatly-piled stack; of half the books Bucky sent him off with.

With the cap gone, Steve smooths down his shirt, leaving his bedroom with one last cursory glance at his outfit. It’s about as good as he can manage—as good as he can _hope_ to look, for a not-date—so Steve leaves his lingering doubts to the wayside, and decides to consider it a win.

**\---**

At noon on the dot, Steve Rogers arrives at the Martinelli Public Library for the second time in his life, a bag of giant, near-fresh muffins in one hand and a tray of hot coffees in the other. He’s buzzing with nerves, but this time, filled with just a fraction of the anxiety he felt the day before.

"Hey," Bucky says in welcome, almost as soon as Steve’s inside. It seems that Steve’s the only patron in the library—at the very least, the only other person on the entire first floor. Bucky was right. It _was_ dead.

"Didn't turn tail this time," Steve says, proudly, "And I brought coffee, just like I promised. Caramel macchiatos. This place makes the best ones. Puts Starbucks to shame.”

“You don’t say,” Bucky says, one corner of his lip turned up in a lopsided smirk, looking at Steve with an expression that stirs something in Steve. Barely a minute in, and he was already halfway to swooning. Steve continues on, making a very concentrated effort not to stare.

“I—uh, even got muffins, too. There's banana nut, blueberry, and double chocolate. Your pick."

Bucky beams at him. He’s in another comfy sweater again—this one, looking like a kaleidoscope exploded on him, but only on his top half. It's truly an eyesore. _God,_ is he charming. "You have no idea how much that means to me right now. You are _perfect,_ Rogers."

Steve buzzes in elation, those few words bringing back that soft, sudden warmth. Hearing Bucky so casually say his name again is novel and exciting. He can’t wait to hear it again. He can’t wait for it to become such a regular part of his life. 

"You wanna get outta here, then?” he asks, trying hard to temper himself. It’s a struggle just to keep himself from bouncing out of his shoes in sheer delight. “Go on that walk?"

"Yeah. Yeah, just let me tell Dolores I'm going on lunch," Bucky says, "Be right back."

"Oh! Right," Steve says, "This third coffee’s for her. You know, for being a good sport last time, letting you show me around."

“You know, we were both just—doing our jobs,” Bucky says, but when he looks up at Steve, he looks fond. Charmed, even.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, trying very, very hard to will away a blush. “But still. Thought I’d get her something for the trouble.”

Bucky grins at him. It makes Steve feel warm and soft all over again. So much for that strategy. "Just for the trouble, yeah? Should I be jealous?"

"Well, Dot’s not the one I'm taking out, so I'd say you're good,” Steve replies, sending Bucky a smile back. 

“Dot,” Bucky snorts, as he stands, stretching a little as he does. “You really _are_ ninety, aren’t you?”

“Hey,” Steve says, stern. Playful. Not a hint of that _Captain America_ tone. “You want this coffee or not?”

“Alright, I get it. Gotta cut the shit. You’re ninety-something, but you’re not _old,_ ” Bucky laughs, amicably. Steve holds the tray of coffees just barely out of Bucky’s reach. Not cruelly, but in a way that does earns him an amused, chagrined smile. Giving each other a hard time. Just a natural extension of their friendship. “Now, can I _please_ have my coffee?”

Steve sets the tray on the circulation desk, handing Bucky his coffee. “I _suppose._ But watch it, Barnes. You’re on thin ice.”

“Will do, _sir,_ ” Bucky says, taking the third cup, and _oh,_ does that shoot off something fuzzy and _dangerous_ in the back of Steve’s brain. He shoves his own cup—warm, perhaps still too warm for _safe_ drinking—in his face, swallowing down hot, syrupy coffee in an attempt not to say something too forward. Something he might regret.

Bucky doesn’t seem to mind—or even notice—Steve’s crisis of charm. He just walks off, two coffees in hand, far more energetic than any librarian Steve had ever seen. He watches Bucky until he’s out of sight, until he hears a far-off _Dot!_ and the soft, low murmur of a friendly conversation between coworkers.

With Bucky gone, that rush of excitement comes back. Steve is all energy again, rocking from the balls of his foot to his heels, his coffee sloshing around as he does so. Briefly, he takes some time to look over the circulation desk. It’s nondescript and far from personal—there’s a stack of post-its and notecards, a few black and blue binders, a cup of pencils and pens, a still-wrapped cookie dough Quest bar, and what looks like a list of times taped next to the keyboard. Steve didn’t know what he expected. It’s not like the circulation desk was Bucky’s permanent office, and it could hardly have been a doorway to his soul. He sips his coffee, feeling disappointed nonetheless, trying to keep himself from snooping _too_ much.

Luckily for him, Bucky comes back not long after, smiling to himself, one less coffee in hand.

“Ready?” Steve asks.

“Always,” Bucky says, that smile shifting into a brilliant grin. 

**\---**

A walk in the park is a welcome escape from the controlled chaos of Steve’s life. The sun is warm on Steve’s skin, but not over-warm; not like the sticky-hot of mid-June. Not like the oppressive heat of standing in the sun with his helmet for hours on end. There’s a soft breeze cutting through the air, a content _sigh_ between the half-budded trees. Avengers Park is calm—even _peaceful_. It’s nothing like the fire and smoke, the battle armor and bullets of missions and ops.

And it’s _perfect._

For once, Steve got to fully enjoy springtime in New York City. And with Bucky, in the flesh, keeping him company. There wasn’t much that could top it. 

“So,” Steve says. They’re taking their time walking through the park, though Bucky seems acutely aware of the time crunch he’s in; as they walk, he begins to pick at one of the muffins, his coffee seemingly long gone. “I guess you know _my_ deep, dark secret,”

“And what’s that?” Bucky asks, unwrapping the muffin Steve gifted him with the same care one would offer ribbon-wrapped birthday presents.

“That I’m masquerading as a normal, average, everyday guy on Instagram,” Steve replies, bashfully, even still. Bucky shrugs.

“If that’s your deep, dark secret, then you really _are_ that straight-laced golden boy all those Tom Hanks movies made you out to be,” he jokes. Steve laughs, a short, sharp bark of a laugh. _As if._

“What about you?” Steve asks, and he knows he’s being forward with Bucky. Maybe even _overly_ so. Just about the second the words come out his mouth, Steve realizes that he’s taking a _very_ straightforward approach to relationship-building. But he can’t help it. He wants to know _everything_ about the guy. They might have shared deep, dark secrets with one another online, but Steve still wants, more than anything, to get to know his best friend better. To start to disentangle the mystery of _who is James Barnes, really?_

And, almost painfully, intentionally vague in response, Bucky simply shrugs.

“What _about_ me?” he asks, before taking his first, wolfish bite out of his muffin, half of it gone in less than a second. The poor thing never stood a chance.

“Anything you wanna share?” Steve asks, his tone light and lilting. “Secret identities, fake names, or anything? Anything compare to my _original sins_?”

Bucky levels a look at Steve, unreadable, but not unkind. He seems very, very serious, if only for a split second, as if considering Steve. As if watching a target. Soon as that seriousness comes, it’s gone, replaced by a slow, warm smile and the most infectious laugh Steve has ever heard.

“You’re gonna have to find that one out for yourself,” he says, slow and honey-smooth and warm as a spring afternoon. Steve laughs. That there—the simple, one-line response—is a challenge. It’s raising the stakes, a sly motivating force, a _come and get me_ with a wink and a nod.

“Oh, don’t think I won’t,” Steve says. Sending Bucky a grin. A smirk. A _look_. A _ready or not, here I come,_ loud and clear.

“Good,” Bucky says, that cute chin of his, tilted up, playful and ever-so-defiant.

“ _Good,_ ” Steve echoes, and _God,_ is Bucky charming like that, looking up at him, all coy smiles and sly looks and not a _hint_ to whatever secrets, whatever unknown contours to his personality he might have. It was _more_ than charming. It was _more_ than exhilarating. Even exciting didn’t begin to cover it.

"So, uh, you from Brooklyn?" Steve asks, after a second’s pause. Bucky, through a mouthful of blueberry muffin, hums an affirmative.

"Yeah,” he says, before swallowing. “Yeah, born and bred."

"That’s great,” Steve offers, “Your folks in the area?"

"Nah,” Bucky says with a shrug, “Dad moved Ma and my sisters down to Indiana. Work stuff. Haven't seen 'em since I graduated undergrad."

"That's a shame," Steve says, and he means it. If any of his family were still around, if he _had_ any family left, they'd never be able to get rid of him.

"Eh. Is what it is," Bucky says with a casual shrug. "Dad's from Indiana, and he was pretty happy about getting assigned there again. Said he's never braving another New York winter again in his life. Not that Indiana’s all that much better, but whatever. I FaceTime 'em once every few weeks. Keep in touch. The oldest of my younger sisters, Becca, we follow each other on Instagram. She's really the only person who ever comments on anything other than you.”

“Oh, wow. So you two, you and Becca. You're close?” Steve asks. God, he's starting to sound like his therapist.

Bucky shrugs, taking his rapid-fire questioning in stride. “As much as we can be. She was born when I was getting outta middle school. We’re practically different generations. But I love the kid, you know.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry—I just,” Steve says with a huff of a laugh. “It must sound like I’m grilling you.”

“Nah. You’re good,” Bucky laughs, picking at the muffin a little.

They settle on a bench, well-shaded and deep in the heart of the park. Steve continues to sip at his coffee, content to have Bucky close to him, damn near knee-to-knee. They sit there for a moment in silence, enjoying each other’s company. Enjoying each other’s closeness. It’s something they couldn’t do over text; something that, as far as Steve’s concerned, means they’ve already taken their friendship to a whole new level. He looks over at Bucky, briefly. Just to make sure he’s happy. Just to make sure he’s telling the truth—to make sure having just as good a time. It doesn’t look like anything to the contrary.

Steve lets out a breath, not a sigh of relief. Something closer to contentment. The breeze picks up again, and he takes a sip of his coffee. It’s not as warm as it was. Neither is the bag of muffins at his side. But Steve doesn’t care. A little lukewarm coffee and muffins aren’t going to distract him from enjoying the park, his company, and the relative stillness. 

“You can ask about it, you know,” Bucky says, suddenly. A ripple in a pond, a crow’s call. A break to that stillness, though not as hostile as either.

“Excuse me?” Steve asks.

“My arm,” Bucky says, matter-of-factly. Like he isn’t talking about an integral part of his body.

“Was I staring?” Steve asks, feeling guilty. In spite of his better manners, in spite of himself, he must have been, his traitorous gaze subconsciously lingering far too long on Bucky’s prosthesis. His Ma must be turning over in her grave _._ “I’m—I’m sorry if I was—“

“You’re fine, Steve,” Bucky says, amicably _._ He’s laughing, even, or something close to it. “You’re better than most people.”

“I just—I don’t wanna be rude.”

“You weren’t staring. And you’re not rude. Like I said, it’s okay if you wanna ask. ‘Specially if I’m the one offering. Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve replies, but in spite of his affirmative, in spite of Bucky’s willingness and reassurance, he still feels like he’d overstepped; like somehow, inadvertently, he’d crossed a line. He tries not to sigh.

Another silence. This one, loaded. Awkward. Maybe Steve was worse at this transition into face-to-face, flesh-and-blood friendship than he’d thought.

“So—uh. What about you? You got any questions for me? I know this is—probably a lot, being friends with, you know. Someone in my position,” Steve says, “So—anything you wanna know, I’ll try to let you know. Within reason, I mean—so. Uh. What do you wanna know?”

Bucky shrugs. “I dunno.”

“Nothing? I mean, seriously, nothing is off the table here,” Steve says, “I wanna be completely transparent and honest with you now that we’re starting over offline. You’ve got a right to know anything you want to. You’re my friend.”

Bucky chews his lower lip for a moment, just slightly. Just so. A nervous tic, or something like it. Steve thinks it's adorable.

“I mean—just. What was it like for you?” Bucky asks, eventually.

“What do you mean?”

“Becoming Captain America. Growing up down here, back in the day, then getting picked up by the SSR. Becoming the first supersoldier. What—what was that like?”

Steve sighs. “It was—I dunno. It was kind of surreal. Being this kid who grew up skinny and sick and pickin’ fights pretty much wherever I saw the chance to, I always thought I wouldn’t really amount to anything. Then I get the serum, I run my ass into bigger fights, and, well. Now I’m here. Not responsible for _everything._ But a lotta things. A whole lotta important things.”

He can feel Bucky’s gaze on him. “That’s a lot for one man.”

“Well, hey, I mean. I’m just doing what I’ve got to. It’s literally what I was made for—if I’m not gonna do it, who will, you know?” Steve half-jokes, with a shrug. He sounds so arrogant, he thinks. Assuming the world wouldn't keep turning without him. As if it hadn't, for all those decades. “Not to say there wouldn't be heroes, just. Risking my ass to protect and defend the things that need protecting, that's my purpose. My actual, biological purpose. I was made this way to do that, I signed up to get poked and prodded and turned into what I am now to do that, and not really anything else. Guess that’s the downside to it all, you know? Other than Schmidt, whose atoms are rightfully scattered through time and space, if Thor's to be believed, the serum made it so I’m a subspecies of one. I've gotta do what I was made for, 'cause I’m the only one of my kind.”

“You don’t know that,” Bucky says, quiet, soft. Perhaps in an attempt to be comforting.

“Yeah, I guess not,” Steve says, with a shrug. It was a possibility. Unlikely, but it was a possibility.

They sit in silence for a little bit—this one, far more comfortable than the one before. It feels right. Steve feels the compulsion to take Bucky by the hand, then and there. It would be so easy, if he just were to reach out. If he were to work up the bravery and gall that it would take to do that.

And if Bucky weren't face-first into a fist-sized blueberry muffin.

"Muffin good?" Steve asks, realizing he hasn't even touched his own food, save for the coffee. Bucky makes a little noise, a verbal nod, of sorts.

"I'm so hungry," he says, once he's swallowed the last of his muffin. "Sorry if it was, uh. Gross. Talking with my mouth full and wolfing it down, and all."

Steve laughs. "You're not gross. _Gross_ is gonna be me, eating both of these muffins and getting a sandwich on the way home and still being hungry by the time I get back. Supersoldier metabolism. It's a hell of a thing."

"Mmm," is what Bucky says, sucking a crumb off his index finger. Steve tries not to stare. He really, really does.

“It is what it is. Can come in handy, if I’m gonna be up all night. You know,” Steve says, maybe a little cheeky maybe a little flirty, sending a little smile over. He tried not to stare. He tried to resist. But even he had his limits. Even he was allowed a little fun. Even if he _was_ bad at flirting. He was already cringing at himself for even halfway attempting. Bucky blinks at him, understanding quickly washing over him, and he shakes his head.

“Does the rest of Brooklyn know Captain America’s a cheeky little punk, or is it just me?” he asks, leveling an amused look at Steve, and _God,_ Steve’s heart does flips. If someone could weaponize that smile, they would have a very dangerous asset on their hands, indeed.

“Nah,” Steve says, “Not all of Brooklyn takes the time to know me like you do.”

“Their loss,” Bucky says, and Steve starts to feel the familiar, creeping warmth of a blush. He couldn’t tell if Bucky was flirting with him, too, but that friendliness made him feel good—better than good, even, all the same.  

One more silence, one more comfortable lull. Steve could have stayed like that until sunset, had it not been for Bucky suddenly realizing that he had somewhere to be.

“Shit—I gotta get back,” Bucky says, standing from the bench, “But—I really liked this. I really, really liked this.”

“I’m glad,” Steve says, following in suit. “It’s the least I could do to make up for—you know. Everything.”

Bucky shrugs. “Like you said, we’re starting over. And this was really, really nice.”

“I’m glad, Bucky. I’m really, really glad,” Steve says, and he’s smiling now, too.

They stand there for a while, mutually content and comfortable, neither really wanting to be the one to say goodbye. And then, Bucky says, damn-near out of the blue—

“Can we do this again sometime?”

And in a moment, as if in a flash, New York—that vast, sprawling, confusing, wonderful city, they both call home—feels condensed; in a moment, alone there with Bucky, in the spring sun, Steve feels like New York City is entirely, solely _theirs._  

“Yeah, of course,” He says sweetly. Hearing Bucky ask that—hearing, _Can we do this again sometime?,_ a promise for another moment like the one they just shared _—_ it’s like the sunrise and fireworks and Christmas all wrapped up into one, and Steve feels his heart flutter hummingbird-quick in his chest. He’s smiling, and all he can hope is that Bucky feels the same.

“Does next week work?" Bucky asks, tentatively. "Tuesday, ‘bout the same time, maybe?”

“Yes, yeah. That works,” Steve says quickly, not even stopping to think if he was free. He would make it work.

“Great,” Bucky grins at Steve, just before they part ways. “I’ll see you next Tuesday.”

**\---**

Steve’s trip home feels almost impossibly pleasant. The two muffins Bucky left him are decadently sweet and soft. The subway station smells, uncharacteristically, not _too_ much like piss. He’s all but _skipping_ down the street, grinning at the world like he’s in an old movie. As he sits, waiting for his usual order from the bánh mì place on the way home, all Steve can think about is how he’ll tell Natasha on their call later that night— _if_ he’ll tell Natasha on their call later that night. When it came down to it, nothing really changed between Bucky and himself. Not substantively. Their relationship—their _friendship_ —was strengthened, is all. But _God,_ did it feel like a revelation. Maybe, then, it was too early to tell Natasha. Maybe it was too early to tell _anyone_ yet. As much as he would love to hire a skywriter, as much as he would love to tell the entire city.

Steve considers all the possibilities, all the potential outcomes, all the strategies of telling his friends he was _infatuated_ long after leaving the bánh mì place, four sandwiches bagged up and one in-hand. He wasn't cooking that night, not if he didn't have to. As he makes his way up to his apartment, chewing on a mouthful of grilled pork, cilantro, and daikon, Steve’s phone buzzes, and he nearly drops his sandwich—and his keys—reaching for it.

It’s not Bucky. It’s the furthest person _from_ Bucky. It’s Tony, reporting on a successful mission. Steve shoulders his way into his apartment, reading over the text carefully as he toes off his shoes and tosses his keys in the dish by the door. Once he’s put his food down, Steve taps out a quick response— _Thanks for the update. Call in S.H.I.E.L.D. for holding and we’ll brief tomorrow at 0800 hours sharp. Good work, everyone._

He pockets his phone, not waiting to see Tony’s response. He doesn’t have to. Steve knows what it’s going to be. Instead, he starts on his sandwich again, skimming over the mission files Natasha sent over one more time before the next day’s briefing, still buzzing, even as he rereads work dossiers, over the fact that he and Bucky hit it off so well. Still buzzing with the satisfying knowledge, the unbelievable truth, _that Bucky wanted to see him again_.

**\---**

By the time Natasha calls, it’s early evening New York time. Steve is working on filling out his sketchbook, his laptop propped open on the edge of his coffee table as he begins to capture that afternoon’s scene.

“Hey, Nat,” Steve says, continuing to sketch, laying out broad, smooth strokes of charcoal on bare pages.

“Hey to _you_ ,” she says. It doesn’t look like she’s in her usual safe house; the sheets and pillows look more comfortable, the lighting looks less stark, and she has a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries on the duvet, right next to her laptop. “You look busy.”

“You look comfortable," he replies. " What time is it over there?”

“Mm, ‘bout one. Almost two,” she says, before biting into a strawberry.

“Mission go smoothly for you, I’m guessing?” Steve asks.

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, clearly savoring the chocolate. “Got good intel, and we’ve got the regional leaders of Hydra in custody. Bruce, Tony, and Wanda are on their way back with them, they should be in the air by now. I decided to stay behind and catch up with one of my sources tomorrow. I’ll probably be back by the end of the week.”

“Tony texted me things went well earlier, but when he says _'This went okay,'_ I always wonder. I’ll send you the briefing notes tomorrow afternoon. Let me know if you have anything to add to them,” Steve says, “And I’m glad everything went well.”

“Just glad to be out of the _sticks_. Maybe I should move. I think the Upper East Side’s spoiled me.”

Steve laughs. “I don’t think _anything_ can spoil you, Natasha.”

“You say that, but given that my building has a doorman, a pool, _and_ I live within walking distance of some of the best museums in the world. I might fight you on that one.”

“Speaking of,” Steve says, pivoting. “Almost stopped by your apartment the other day.”

“You should have. I don’t trust Clint _not_ to feed my cat the same things he feeds poor Lucky,” she says, “ _Or_ check my mail, for that matter.”

“Now I feel guilty for not checking in.” 

“Don’t. I’ll just make my lawyer do it from now on and kick Clint’s ass when I get back,” Natasha says, with a sip of red wine, pulled out from somewhere off-camera. She was deadpan all the same, and might very well have been joking, but Steve believed her. Hell hath no fury like a woman subjected to a week of her cat’s pizza farts. “Barton aside. What were you doing on the East Side?”

Steve shrugs, trying to keep his face level. “Just went for a run.”

She eyes him carefully. It’s not a lie. Just not the entire truth. He was getting good at those. Or at least, he thought he was starting to, anyway.

“You and your dumb supersoldier workout routine,” she says, rolling her eyes, “Just go to spin class for a week and then quit six lessons in like the rest of us.”

“Sorry,” Steve laughs, throwing his hands up in mock-defense.

“Don’t make empty apologies, Rogers. It doesn’t suit you,” Natasha says, pointing a strawberry at Steve.

“Alright, I won’t, Nat,” Steve says, “Not to you.”

She shrugs, before biting into said strawberry. “That’s all I ask, Rogers. All I ask.”

A beat. A silence. Natasha never _was_ the one to make empty conversation, and Steve tried his best not to push her to. They both appreciated that.

“Well, hey,” Steve says, eventually, “I don’t wanna keep you too late.”

“That’s thoughtful of you.”

“Yeah, well, I try to be. Thoughtful, I mean.”

“Mm,” Natasha hums. “Still haven’t told me what the outfit was for.”

 _Don't tell her about Bucky. It's not the right time. Not yet_. “I just—I wanted to look good, ‘s all.”

She eyes him, carefully, clearly wanting to push back. Clearly wanting to get to the bottom of things. But somehow, for some reason, she doesn’t. Instead, she just hums, nodding the smallest of nods, and leaves it at that. If Steve knows Natasha at all—which, he thinks he does, even through all the biting sarcasm and dense, emotional walls—he knows that this isn’t the end of it. She hasn’t dropped the thread. But she’s letting it settle for a while. She’s giving it time to branch out, before she cuts down to the root. He almost wishes she would press him more, now.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You seem—happy. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

Steve smiles. He'll tell her about Bucky. He'll tell her _everything_ about him—but not yet. It is, after all, only their first-ever real date—and it wasn’t even _that_. Instead, he just nods, sincere. “Thank you, Nat.”

“Good night, Steve.”

“Sleep well, Nat.”

The call ends, and Steve shuts his laptop. He sketches a few lines more, just a few more details of Avengers Park, before he stands, dusts off his hands, and goes to his dresser—this time, to pick out something to read for the rest of the night.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it’s been a while. a lot’s happened in my life since the last update. a short, but not at all comprehensive list includes: having a health scare because of my roommate situation, going to a social worker, getting offered a new apartment in the middle of talks with a social worker, packing and moving my entire life within three days, going to new york two days after moving in to my new place, staying a week in the east village with my best friend/cousin/platonic soulmate, getting fleet week-ed (full on carrie bradshaw-style), coming back to the biggest workload i've ever had to deal with, cat-sitting for ten days, finishing work that i needed to finish and sleeping for 20 hours, and fucking off to disneyland because i live in southern california and that's something i can do now?? which is just #wyld to me??? also my good pal [halfmoonsevenstars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmoonsevenstars) was in town, _and_ it's summer of heroes, so i can't just pass that up lol. 
> 
> anyway, needless to say, i haven't had much time to write fic. but as i've said before, i haven't given up on this fic. i have chapters whose implications i've just barely started seeding in these seven chapters that i've already started fleshing out. i plan on seeing this thing through. and i mean it. <3
> 
> some notes, as is the usual:
> 
> \- the outfit that steve wears is [this chris evans outfit](https://twitter.com/celebrity_hive/status/525323134161784832), except with the shirt tucked into his pants. so a little bit of a tighter cut/style to show off les tiddés.
> 
> \- bucky’s sweater is [this garish thing](http://sebastianstan-daily.tumblr.com/post/85927592618/sebastian-stan-nylon-guys), except a boxier/baggier/comfier fit, and slightly brighter versions of those colors. imagine that sweater, but from the ‘80s.
> 
> \- [liver loaf was 100% a legit meal from the great depression era](https://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/17/dining/great-depression-food-square-meal-book.html). i know that liver loaf is a real meal in some places in the contemporary US, but given how much boiling and how little seasoning was done during the depression, i imagine steve’s memories of liver loaf would be pretty damn awful.
> 
> \- i don’t have a specific area or apartment on the upper east side for natasha’s apartment, and i don’t remember if my headcanon is in sync with phil noto’s black widow run, but the closest thing that matches my idea of where natasha would live is [the concorde](https://www.nybits.com/apartments/220_east_65th_st.html), a postwar high-rise with what is genuinely the most staggering amount of amenities i've ever seen. seriously, [check out what about $5,000/a month to rent (or ~$1.5-2.1 million to own) can get you](http://streeteasy.com/building/the-concorde). it's also a thirty-five minute walk from the guggenheim. must be nice.
> 
> \- of course, all of that is predicated on the idea that natasha, after living a rigid, structured, spartan life with little opportunity for agency and love and ample opportunity for living under fear and control, has chosen to treat herself well and live as comfortable a life as possible when not in the field specifically because she recognizes that she has a home and a life in new york now. which is how i like to see her.
> 
> \- there is a _lot_ of food in this chapter. i think i might actually make that list of "foods already used in hot librarian au" just so i don't double up too much. 
> 
> \- it took me everything in my power not to make the chapter description a starbucks (both the coffee place and the ship name) joke. so, there’s that.
> 
> i'll see you when i see you, everyone. thanks for all the patience, care, and love. you have no idea how much it means to me. i've signed up for Camp NaNo for july, so i'm going to get a bit done of this fic through that, but i've also got a few oneshots in the works that i need to finish by the end of Camp, so keep an eye out for those. catch you when i catch you :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> guns and butter.

“Morning, butterbeans,” says Tony Stark, before slurping down a piping-hot cup of coffee from a bright red MIT travel mug. As per classic Tony, he’s the last to arrive at their meetings, but he damn well makes a show when he does. Steve sighs, just barely under his breath, choosing to focus on his tablet, instead. “Remind me why we meet this early, again?”

It was one of the few times that the team met as a group. _They_ being the Avengers, plus some S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who proved to be decidedly _not_ part of a right-wing coup to take over the world, and minus Thor, who was busy taking on some cosmo-Norse responsibility. Not everyone was physically present—Sam was in DC, and Banner was doing some low-profile aid work in Sokovia—but everyone was at the meeting, some way or another. And as semi-official leader, Steve was in charged with headlining the meeting—even though most of his meeting notes were giving room for others to speak.

“Maybe because some of us have nine-to-fives, and this is our lunch break,” says Rhodes, without any real heat or sarcasm in his voice. Tony makes a face at him, to which Rhodes, under the table, flips Tony the bird. They clearly love and adore one another. Their friendship operates in a way that only relationships that took decades to foster could. Steve envies it.

“Speaking of,” Natasha says, turning to look at one of the many wall-mounted monitors, where Sam is absentmindedly watching the scene in front of him. “What’s for lunch, Wilson?”

“Are you asking what _my_ lunch is, or are you trying to get me to Seamless you something?” Sam asks, his voice coming across slightly distorted on the line. Natasha shrugs. “Doesn’t Stark order you sandwiches?”

“In _this_ economy?” Tony jokes, and Rhodes snorts.

They’re getting chatty, and getting distracted. As much as he likes the mood of easy camaraderie in the room, Steve takes that as his cue. He stands from his seat, slow, so as to send a message, and waits until all eyes are on him before he speaks.  

“Alright, everyone. Lunch plans can come later. Let’s get this meeting started,” Steve says, slipping into his role easily, _fluidly._ “It’s good to have everyone here. We’ve got a few important things to touch on today. Nat just got back from a successful undercover operation, one that led to a just-as-successful raid on a Hydra base.”

A wave of knowing nods, pats on the back. Steve pauses, just for a moment. Just to let everyone congratulate each other.

“With the Russian faction leaders still in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, we’re still getting new information about Hydra’s ongoing plans and operations,” Steve continues, after a moment. “That said, we’ve got enough to go on to start taking down the smaller splinter cells in the region and surrounding the region. We need to work fast on making sure that Hydra is _fully_ burnt down in this area. We don’t want any of these cells coming to fill in the vacuum left by the Russian faction leaders, and we _definitely_ don’t want this acting as a catalyst for a violent power struggle between different Hydra splinters. So, we’re going in next week to take them all down.”  

Cut off one head, cauterize the wounds, salt the earth, and burn that mother _down_. Guerilla tactics, Avengers-style. It was Steve’s preferred philosophy when dealing with Hydra, and he had absolutely no intentions to change to a strategy even an inch more diplomatic.

“I’ve drawn up strategies and group formations, and I sent them out this morning. If you haven’t pulled them up yet, here’s an overview,” Steve says, pulling up the file on his tablet. Within seconds, it flashes onto the monitors not occupied by Avengers calling in long-distance. “We’re on a quick, rolling timetable, and it’s _very_ important we do this carefully and smoothly. Familiarize yourselves with where you’re supposed to be and when. First wave has boots on the ground in five days. Questions?”

Tony raises his hand. Steve readies himself for whatever question—or, in Stark’s case, argument—might come next. Just another part of the job. “Stark?”

“This operation shouldn’t be this big,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I don’t see why _all_ of us need to be involved. Rhodey and I could have this down in a few days. No offense to the rest of you.”

“Our rolling timetable and overlapping operations make this op more efficient. You and Rhodes are valuable parts of our team,” Steve replies, calmly. He asked for questions, and this, sure enough, was a question. “But you can only be in two places at one time, at best. Fast as either of your suits may be—”

“Five-thousand, nine-hundred seventy-six miles per hour. That’s about Mach 5, and a hell of a lot faster than any Helicarrier or Quinjet our S.H.I.E.L.D. buddies have loaned out, just so you know,” Tony says, rapidfire-quick and condescending.

Steve pauses and takes a breath. _Stay level, Rogers,_ goes a soft, friendly voice in his head. There was no need to get in a fight with Tony. Not now.

“ _Fast as your suits may be,_ ” he repeats, his voice carefully level. “There’s still the risk of word getting out. We don’t want these cells to scatter, and we’re wanting to minimize civilian casualties, if not eliminate them completely. Some of these smaller cells can take hostage of _entire towns_. A quick, rolling ambush is the smartest option.”

Tony looks at him, an argument painted bright and clear on his face, like the hot rod red of his suit. Steve tries to ignore it, simply reiterating to the team the details of the maneuvers he’s showing on-screen. Walking through the steps to guarantee mutual understanding.

Of course, Steve Rogers—brave leader or not—was born and bred a fighter, and he could only suppress that fighting urge for so long. And so, though he tried—he _really_ tried—to take the high road with Tony, something smarmy and fighty and more than a little rude still slips out. As Steve is preparing to step down, setting up to give the stage to someone else for a while, it slips in like a verbal stowaway:

“—this plan is the smartest, most efficient, _safest_ plan possible. Given you’re the smartest guy any given room, Stark, you should be able to see the logic in that.”

And the energy in the room shifts _immediately._

“Well,” Tony says, not in a yell, but somewhat ruffled, nonetheless, “I’m glad you’ve finally started to recognize that, Cap.”

“Only because you feel the need to repeat it, Stark,” Steve replies, sharply, flicking through his notes on his tablet.

“Hey, uh, I—I’ve got to get back to my patients, can we—let’s—let’s move on,” Bruce chimes in quickly, his voice soft and amicable, from his place on the other side of the world. Steve and Tony spend some time watching one another, neither one backing down. Neither one wanting to be the one to blink first. If it weren’t for the fact that they had a meeting to close out, if it were just him and Tony, Steve would have very well kept that up forever.

But he _couldn’t_ keep it up forever. He couldn’t go head-to-head with Tony, not there. Not in front of practically the _entire team._ It wasn’t just _his_ time he would be wasting if he engaged; it would be the entire team’s. As captain, both in rank and in title, it was _not_ a good look, pettily arguing with another member of the team. It was practically the chaos of their very first meeting all over again. Steve clenches his jaw, letting out a low, slow breath—steadying himself. Levelling himself once more.

“You’re right, Banner,” Steve says, eventually. Tony backs off, looking smug, even through his frustration. “Let’s get back on track. Are there any other questions?”

The tension in the room dissipates almost in time with Tony sinking back in his chair. No one seems to want to pipe up, not after Tony and Steve’s little spat. That was _not_ good for morale. And that consequence was on Steve. On Tony, too, but mostly on Steve. He would have to do something to fix that, to make sure that group cohesion and cooperation was high. More importantly, he would have to emphasize that there was _nothing wrong_ with bringing up potential flaws in whatever strategies and battle plans he drew up. That, if anything, was the biggest piece of damage control Steve would have to do.

Filing those thoughts to the back of his mind—for the time being—Steve makes eye contact with Natasha, seated at the corner of the table, opposite him. She’s watching him carefully, and when their eyes meet, she nods. It’s her usual poker face, but Steve has a feeling they’ll be talking about this incident later.

“I’m going to turn it over to Natasha to give us a summary of the intel she’s gathered while undercover. Nat?”

She nods and stands, a few of her own notes carefully-organized and strewn in front of her.

“Morning, everyone. As you all know, Hydra has lost much of its organizational power and cohesion since the elimination of most of its upper leadership during the Lumerian Star and Sokovia incidents,” Natasha says, “As Rogers mentioned, this has led to factionalism and splintering, even among lower-level, local Hydra cells. There is _already_ a struggle within Hydra’s ranks to rebuild ranks and install certain leaders as head of the whole organization. And as Rogers mentioned, that struggle has the potential to turn violent, with civilians at the most risk.”

Steve has heard a version of this same briefing before. He takes notes on his tablet, regardless. After all, it was always good to be thorough, especially with something as sensitive as this.

“While this is all going on, we have some information that seems to indicate a coordinated effort to launch an attack against population centers in the United States. There seems to be some interest from Hydra cells stateside requesting weapons from Hydra cells around the Sokovia-Russia region. Big weapons. Ultron-guts weapons,” Natasha continues on, “We don’t have any leads on which American Hydra cells are requesting these weapons—or where, specifically, they’re planning on using these weapons—so these raids are going to have to serve two purposes.”

A pause. Time to let the importance of their next mission, those non-stop, exhausting attacks, soak in. Like earlier, there are some understanding nods, but fewer. Further between. Laced with concern because of that element of uncertainty that Natasha introduced—the idea that, good as any of them might be, there was the chance that at any time, the Avengers might be taken by surprise.

It was a lot to digest. For anyone, but especially for newer recruits—people who didn’t make careers out of uncertainty, out of responsibility. Not for the first time, Steve makes a note to speak to touch base with Wanda. Just to check in. Just to make sure that she—the youngest member of the team, and the one closest to loss—is doing okay.

Steve’s phone lights up, a silent alert to a new message received, and from its spot on the glass tabletop it’s like a beacon—both a distraction and a welcome break from the heaviness of the job. Steve flicks his eyes over the screen, briefly—moving quickly to unlock his phone and glance over the full message.

> BUCKY [10:59 AM]: Morning, Stevie. How’d your run go?
> 
> BUCKY [11:17 AM]: We still on for tomorrow? :P

It’s not professional in the slightest, checking his phone in the middle of a meeting like that. With most of them dealing with day jobs, and _all_ of them dealing with breaking threats, it’s more excusable to keep up to date—though it doesn’t make Steve’s lack of focus any less unbecoming of a leader. But he finds himself almost working on autopilot, swiping in a quick response:

> ME [11:18 AM]: _In meeting; yes. :)_  

The situation at hand might have been heavy, but he still found himself feeling lighter, brighter, even, knowing that, even in spite of his responsibilities—many and important that they were—he had begun to create a _life._ He wasn’t _just_ Captain America anymore. He was slowly but surely beginning to exist and live and thrive as _just Steve._ He was learning how to be a person again. And Bucky was his touchstone for that. 

“Steve?” Natasha asks, jerking him out of his little distraction. He makes eye contact with her, and she looks, almost, like she’s smiling. Chagrined, but smiling. “Got anything to add before we break?”

“Keep an eye out during these rolling raids, and when you’re taking out leadership, let’s try not to kill them,” Steve replies, slipping quick and easy back into Captain mode, though far less rigid than earlier. “Sound good?”

Hums and nods and murmured affirmatives. No questions raised, not even unspoken ones, the kind that make their presence known, but manifest only through physical expressions of doubt. Just concern. Anxiousness. The kind that follows a big mission like this, but more so, the kind that accompanies the fact that _there is knowledge we are missing._

Steve nods, not filled with brimming confidence, but trusting in his team, regardless. That’s all he could do. That was probably the most important thing he could do—other than doing his best to keep the group together. “Well, in that case, we’re done. Since we won’t be having a training exercise before this op, be sure to make sure you’re prepared before you’re needed on the ground. Our all-team meeting will be our debrief when we’re all back. Unless anyone has any lingering questions—this meeting is dismissed.”

Like antsy undergrads being let out a long lecture, the team breaks and disperses, gathering up notes and bags and half-empty cups of coffee.

“Nice seeing everyone,” Bruce says, with a little wave, before ending the connection. Steve looks up at the monitor and sends a tired little half-salute to Sam, who finger-guns back.

 “See you in a few,” Steve says, knowing fully well the next time he’d see Sam was probably through the hail of bullets.

“Talk to you soon,” Sam replies, before he hangs up, the monitor blacking out. He wishes they could speak more. But Sam was a very busy man, with a very normal life, outside the Avengers. He deserved better than for Steve to start getting _needy_ on him.

Turning, Steve scans the room as he packs his notes and his tablet up. Conversations have broken out in clusters, but Wanda, the person Steve wanted to talk to the most, is nowhere to be found. He makes a mental note— _check in on Wanda later. Marked urgent_.

“Rogers,” Natasha calls out. He finds her through the shuffle, and they meet in the middle.

“What’s up?” Steve asks, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

“Lunch?” she asks, motioning with her head towards the door.  

Steve shrugs, but the way that they smile at each other leaves no doubt about his coming answer. Of all the things people had proposed over that meeting, an early lunch was probably the best idea he’d heard all day.

“Sure,” he replies, “Why not?”

**\---**

Natasha leads him to a trendy little brunch café, complete with a trendy brunch café line. The two of them stand together, all but anonymous outside the front entrance, just two regular New Yorkers on a long lunch break. Being Avengers had both its responsibilities and its perks, but it sure didn’t exempt them from a twenty-minute wait.

“That meeting went well,” Natasha starts, once they’re comfortably settled in line, slowly inching ever-forward.

“It could’ve gone better, is how it went,” Steve says, sounding a lot more tired than he was.

“Tony can be dick. He has his good moments, but he can definitely also be a dick. You can’t control for that,” she says, with a shrug. “Comes with the territory.”

“No, I get that. And I’ve come to terms with that,” Steve says, “You’re gonna own a cat, you’re gonna have to live with a box of shit. Just think I could’ve handled it better.”

“Yeah. You could’ve. Could’ve also handled it a lot worse,” she replies, completely nonplussed. “Just don’t engage next time. Strange as it might sound to you, the thing is, you don’t have to fight all the time.”

Steve snorts. Easier said than done. _Damn well_ easier said than done, especially when it came to Stark.

“What about Wanda?” Steve asks, a sharp pivot. He didn’t want to think any more about how he fucked up with dealing with Tony. _Or_ how he was going to spend the next few meetings walking back the damage he’d done.

Natasha shrugs. “What _about_ her?”

“You have any idea how she’s doing? I was gonna catch up with her after the meeting, but she disappeared.”

“She’s doing okay. From what she’s told me, anyway,” Natasha says. Then, she turns to him, head tilted to the side, looking almost comical. “You’re concerned about her.”

That was putting it lightly. Steve sighs, long and heavy. “She’s been through a lot. And she’s new to this. I mean—there’s a learning curve. We forget that, since most of us have been doing sort of thing for so long, we’re used to it, but—shit, Natasha, she’s been through so much, she’s barely had the chance to breathe, and here we are, asking her to make sure her country doesn’t get caught in the crossfire of a Hydra turf war.”

“And she can do it. She’ll learn. Many before her have,” Natasha replies, standing tip-toed to look to the front of the line. They’re _so_ close to being seated. “If I remember my American history correctly, _you_ ran after a Hydra agent about eleven minutes after popping out of the Stark-Erksine supersoldier-o-matic.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” Steve says, shaking his head with a little smile. It was a trial by fire if there ever was one. “Guess you have a point. I’m still going to check in with her. And I—I dunno. I’m still going to offer her an out.”

They reach the front of the line, the twenty minutes passing by in a flash. A friendly, handlebar-moustached waiter waves them over to a cozy, two-person table in the window of the café.

“Don’t underestimate her, Steve. Wanda is stronger than your mother-henning instincts seem to suggest,” Natasha says, somehow having squeezed her way in front of Steve when he hadn’t been looking. “Now enough talking shop. Let’s go eat. I’ve been thinking about this place’s rosewater waffles since earlier this morning.”

They settle into their seats, their waiter hovering by the table. It’s a tight squeeze, and Natasha takes the one closest to the wall, knowing fully well how cramped Steve would be if forced into it. She’s a good friend, Steve thinks, stretching out those long legs of his, to the extent that he can.

Menus are printed on the cutesy, illustrated placemats at this café. Anywhere else, that would have been considered tacky. Only in New York could one order six-dollar coffee off a placemat menu. When they order, Steve gets the six-dollar coffee, anyway. 

“So,” Natasha says eventually, drawing the word far longer than it had any right to be.

“So?” Steve asks, half-wondering if he’s in the mood to order a beer later. He knows he probably won’t—it’s not like he can get drunk, and it’s not like the taste is anything to write home about—but as it’s offered, it’s something he’s willing to consider. It would be a comfort, after the meeting, after all.

Natasha leans in close, almost stretching out across the entire table. “Who’re you seeing?”

“I’m not seeing anyone, Natasha,” Steve says, not looking up at her. “And don’t try to set me up with anyone, either, you know I’m just gonna turn ‘em down.”

She hums, doing that thing with her eyebrows that makes her look suspicious. Like a picture she sent to him, way back when. A cat, looking smug, at the other end of a knife. That was a Natasha picture, if there ever were one. “Well—if you aren’t seeing someone, you _want_ to be seeing this person.”

“What makes you think there’s a _person_?” Steve asks, trying hard not to sound overly defensive. Trying hard to sound casual.

“You looked at your phone during the meeting.”

Steve works hard to keep his expression level, knowing fully well he’d been caught texting a _someone._ The texting bit wasn’t the issue. That was all but acknowledged by now. The _someone_ bit, though—that was where Steve was caught. He’d been putting off telling Natasha, and this could have been a good in—but that doesn’t stop him from playing the denial game.

“It was unprofessional, but that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a person,” he says, sipping at his water. “I have notifications for breaking news. You should get them, too.”

“It was a text. I saw it. It couldn’t’ve been from me or anyone else you know, because we were all in the room together, and you _know_ Sam doesn’t reply to the groupchat,” Natasha says, and just as Steve is opening his mouth to speak, she stops him, “And _don’t_ try to say it was your dentist or something, because I saw you. I saw the way you smiled when you took a look at it.”

This game was always a losing one, especially when playing against someone as experienced and sharp-eyed as Natasha. If denial were chess, Steve was a child, playing against Natasha’s Winston Churchill.

“You know,” she says, mixing her juice with its straws, “You’re only really good at deflecting if you’ve got your shield.”

He sighs, turning his head away. The other side of the restaurant suddenly became very interesting. All she does is smile at him, looking smug. Looking like that very same cat, only this time, with an entire dead pigeon in its mouth.

“There’s a _someone,_ Rogers,” she says, quietly, shifting tone, all that former playfulness gone. A rare moment of genuine softness. The Iron Curtain never really goes down, but in this moment, it parts, ever-so-slightly. “And really, I’m happy for you. You deserve a _someone_.”

“But?” Steve asks, glancing at her. She shrugs.

“No _but_. I mean it. I’m happy for you.”

Steve sighs. He would have to tell her. As much as loved the idea of having Bucky all to himself, having their relationship private and away and entirely shielded from any of the Avengers, he had to tell her.

Their food comes out in half the time it took for them to get a seat. Natasha digs into her fancy waffles almost immediately. She trusted him—enough to let those walls let things through. Enough to share meals with him. Enough to feel comfortable actually _eating._ He would have to tell her. Steve, after swallowing a mouthful of brunch steak, would tell her.

“It’s cute librarian.”

Natasha looks at him, wide-eyed and startled through a mouthful of rosewater waffle and honey syrup.

“ _Who?_ ” she asks, after swallowing. Steve can’t tell if she’s being genuine, or if she’s playing it up—feigning ignorance to get him to say exactly what she wants to hear, an official confirmation, clear and without subtext. But if he had to choose, he would pick the former.

“You know. My—uh. My Instagram friend.”

“ _Bucky If You’re Nasty?_ ” she asks, sounding excited even through her perpetual deadpan. “You’re dating _Bucky If You’re Nasty?_ ”

“No, not, not—not dating. But I—he and I, we have lunch together. Go on walks. That—uh. Those sorts of things,” Steve says, conveniently leaving out the part about how they’d been on _one_ walk together while sharing _one_ not-lunch. Two, counting their plans for the day ahead of them.

“Interesting,” Natasha all but hums, and she’s doing the face again. Maybe it’s the fact that as she grills Steve, she’s simultaneously enjoying her waffles. But somehow, that expression seems amplified _,_ even though it’s _exactly the same_. “So, what’s he like?”

“He’s—he’s nice. We’re really just getting to know each other again,” Steve says, continuing to clean his plate. “But he’s nice. He’s nice, and he’s funny, and he’s genuine, and warm, and—I dunno. I really like him.”

She smiles, almost looking fond. “Sounds like you _do_.”

“Hey,” Steve says, “What’s that tone supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Natasha says, but nothing is never really _nothing_ with her.

“Bullshit, Nat. Come on. I’m not—I’m not going to propose to the guy tomorrow, or anything.”

“I never said that, Rogers,” she replies, punctuated by a sip of her juice.

He studies her closely. “But this time, there’s a _but._ ”

“Is it _his?_ Is it nice?” Natasha deadpans, with a little smirk. Steve blushes at that. Like a goddamn schoolboy.

“I—uh. I’m not at liberty to say,” he says, his eyes settling on his forkful of scrambled eggs and hash browns. He hadn’t caught much of Bucky’s ass, given that they were almost always side-by-side, and in the time that they weren’t, Bucky was either sitting or wearing long, bulky cardigans. But he liked to imagine it was a nice ass—call it a combination of wishful thinking and an educated guess, given the few glances he’d stolen of Bucky’s seemingly-thick thighs.

“Uh-huh,” Natasha hums. Unconvinced. Unimpressed. She finishes off her juice, watching Steve the entire time. All Steve can do under her gaze is chew, slowly finishing his breakfast, getting sized up the entire time. It’s silent for a long time between them, though this one is far less comfortable than their usual ones, if only because God knows what is going on inside Natasha’s head. It’s only after Steve pays for their lunch that that silence is broken again—quick and sharp, as is Natasha’s nature.

“So when are you asking him out?” she asks, the question hitting Steve out of nowhere like oncoming traffic.

“Natasha, we’ve had lunch together _once_ ,” Steve says. She has him clocked. Big time. He’s in deep, and Natasha Romanov _knows._ “I—we can’t.”

“But you’ve been best friends with him for how long now? Few months? Almost a year?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. It doesn’t feel like that long. Somehow, it feels like he just met Bucky yesterday. But somehow, it also feels like he and Bucky had known each other since the beginning of time. “Yeah, about.”

She hums, standing. Leaving a few large bills as a tip. She had a soft side, a generous side, if one knew where to look. “You know, on dating apps, sometimes you ask people out after like, an hour’s conversation. I’m just saying.”

Steve follows her out, unfolding his long legs from under the tiny table, trying very hard to make himself small and inconsequential to squeeze his way through the crowded café as painlessly as possible. There were many times that New York City made him miss being small, and this—conversation and all—was one of those times.

“Even if I were into the Grindr thing, I don’t even know if _he’s_ —you know. That kind of guy.”

“How does he know _you’re_ that kind of guy?” is what she hits back with, looking him straight in the eye. And, to some degree, she’s right. It’s not like Steve started his first conversation with Bucky by saying, _Hi, I’m your friend Grant, but I’m actually Steve Rogers, and also, I am sexually attracted to men._ But he’d hinted.

“We’ve—” Steve sighs, “ _I’ve_ flirted with him. Kind of.”

She stares up at him, unblinking. “Steve.”

“What?” he asks, feeling _accused._ Less like a firing squad, and more like somehow, he’d been tattled on.

“You’re not very good at subtleties,” she says, and he can see it in her face: that awkward, undercover kiss between them, flashing across her memory. They both made an unspoken pact never to speak of it again, but that didn’t mean either of them could completely forget it. As much as either of them would like to. “Or flirting, for that matter, I imagine.”

“Hey, I bagged my fair share of hunks in the day,” Steve brags. Playfully, but not untruthfully. Not that the circumstances were the most intimate, or filled with much emotional depth at all, but the point still stands.

“Sure, sure, grandpa,” Natasha parries back, rolling her eyes. She sends him a little lopsided smirk, and he laughs, soft. Like an exhale. Like a little release.

Maybe Stark and Rhodes had their own decades-long, college-sweethearts friendship, but this thing with Natasha? Their little, intimate, difficult, fun friendship? It wasn’t too bad.

“Well. Thank you for lunch, but I have to go. Things to do. Intel to gather. A cat to feed,” Natasha says, “But seriously, Steve. Make sure _he_ knows that you’re a viable partner for him before you start panicking about how he might not be a viable partner for _you_. That should change things. You’ll be happily dating within the next few weeks, and I expect you to tell me once you ask him out _._ ”

“You know you can’t hold me up to that, Nat,” Steve says.

“Fine,” she groans, “But tell me when you ask him out, alright?”

“Yes. Of course,” he says, completely seriously, “I will.”

“And hey, Steve,” Natasha says, grabbing his attention—just one more last-minute thing before they part. “I mean it. I’m happy for you.”

Steve smiles. “Thank you.”

They stand there, off to the side, in the middle of Manhattan, enjoying each other’s company. It’s not like the warmth of being with Bucky, not like the way he feels like he could spend forever with that boy, but Steve wouldn’t trade this moment, this feeling, with Natasha, even still.  

“Of course, you _do_ know this means I have to tell Sam, right?” she asks, eventually.

“ _Natasha_.”

“The only way to stop me is to tell him before I do,” she says, as she begins to walk away. “You have about eight hours. Better make them count.”

He shakes his head, waving a goodbye. If she wanted to tell Sam, she could tell Sam, and Steve could just fill in the details and course-correct when Sam would inevitably call to ask about it later.

There wasn’t much to tell, anyway—as much as Steve might wish, might _hope_ otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drifting away from steve and bucky's budding relationship (in whatever form it takes) to get to steve in the avengers and steve with others, for a while. no smooches yet, but they're coming. eventually. ;)
> 
> \- this chapter (and the next two/three) were initially one chapter, but i got ahead of myself and it ended up being ~8k words and wasn't even fully finished. after some panicked consultation with/great feedback from my fantastic writing partner, [emily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier) (a.k.a. [softbrobucky on tumblr](http://softbrobucky.tumblr.com/)), i divided it up. hopefully that solves some of the pacing and relationship-building issues, but we’ll see.
> 
> \- read up on the [guns and butter model here.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guns_versus_butter_model)
> 
> \- on [my tumblr](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/post/162369842352/classical-fic-meme-thing), i originally had tony drinking from a regular, 30/40-year-old MIT mug, but i decided to give him a travel mug instead. there is another mug in the next chapter that i'm excited to talk about, but that’ll come when it comes.
> 
> \- the café that natasha and steve have lunch at is based off [jack’s wife freda](http://jackswifefreda.com/) in Soho. i still think about the madam freda there.
> 
> that's it for the time being. i have a good amount of the next chapter done, but i'll be taking a break from writing hot librarian au, very briefly, to work on a giftfic that needs to be done by the end of the month. in the meantime, check out [this great art](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/post/163214178867/phoenixgryphon-softbrobucky-softpunkbucky) that my good friend raz did of hot librarian bucky in a too-tight out of print sweater. it's a good preview for next chapter, i think. see you then. ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a week in the life. (more or less)

The next day, Tuesday, Steve shows up at the Martinelli bright-eyed and ready for his and Bucky’s walk, complete with food—this time, a bag of sandwiches from his favorite deli. Seeing Bucky again had been on Steve’s mind ever since their last meeting. He would be up in the air and out of New York for a week, minimum, by Friday—this was his last chance to speak to Bucky regularly for a while. And he wanted to make it count. 

Bucky already has three-fourths of a protein bar in his mouth when Steve arrives, and for a second, Steve panics, thinking he’s somehow, accidentally, shown up late. He readies up an apology, but the bright look on Bucky’s face puts those fears to rest. Suddenly, Steve feels not panic, but fondness. All he can think, then, is that with that with the better part of a protein bar stuffed in his mouth, Bucky looks like something akin to a handsome, blue-eyed hamster.

“ _Stvff_ ,” he says, through what looks like a mouthful of chocolate chips and _beige_. He swallows, quickly, painfully almost, before taking a sip of coffee from a canary-yellow mug. Steve doesn’t blame him. “Ugh. Sorry. _Hi_.”

“Hi,” Steve says, with a smile. He sets the bag on the counter, a clear gift. “Brought you something.”

“Aww, Steve,” Bucky says, still cradling his mug in his hands. _Reading is Sexy_ , it says. Steve wants to comment on it. Maybe even say something about its accuracy. He decides against it. _Don’t be a fucking weirdo, Rogers,_ goes the eternal refrain in the back of his brain. Bucky just smiles at him, his expression soft, completely oblivious to the tug-of-war going on in Steve’s head. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Steve says, before pulling out a sandwich for himself. “Hope you like tuna.”

Bucky beams at him, bright and beautiful and sending butterflies fluttering in the pit of Steve’s stomach. _Dammit,_ he was in deep. “Lemme tell Dolores I’m gonna take my lunch. Be right back.”

With that, he sets down his mug, pushes himself out and away from the circulation desk, and walks off, disappearing between shelves and through the library’s twists and turns. Steve watches him until he’s out of sight, before letting out a little—only _slightly_ lovestruck—sigh.

He thinks about his conversation with Natasha the day before. About the fact that he’d fallen head over heels for Bucky so _quickly._ The idea of the two of them—Bucky and Steve, as a unit—feels like the most natural thing in the world. But Steve knows it’s far too early to even _consider_ making a move, especially if they were starting over, as he promised they were doing on their first FaceTime chat. Combined with the fact that Steve’s not even entirely sure if Bucky is flirting with him, or if Bucky is just _very_ friendly and he’s been misreading the signals, making a move is almost entirely out of the question.

But God, does Steve want to. Does he wish he _could._

Bucky shows up again in record time, twirling a pen in a way Steve had never seen before. Like he was practicing for a Coney Island knife show. In one fluid motion, Bucky flicks his wrist, the pen tumbling into the cup on his desk. Steve almost wants to applaud, but Bucky doesn’t even stop—he just grins at Steve, and continues to the door.

“Ready to go?” he asks. 

“After you,” Steve says, angling his head slightly, looking to catch a quick peek of that ass, just to _know._ Sure enough, it’s a damn nice ass, at least, what Steve can tell from it.

**\---**

Their walk to the park is quiet. It's quiet in part because Bucky is eating his tuna sandwich, but moreso because Steve is trying to revel in the moment; he’s taking it in, studying it, memorizing every single shade and hue that he can take in. He was going to need the memory of today when he shipped out for the Avengers' upcoming anti-Hydra op.

“Good sandwich?” Steve asks, less to break an awkward silence, and more to let Bucky know he’s not ignoring him. Not that it seems like Bucky would mind. He looks hungry, tearing into the sandwich like it’d been the first thing he ate all day, despite the fact that Steve knew it very much wasn’t. 

“Mmm,” Bucky hums in agreement. “Good sandwich.”

Somehow, that agreeable little response—that friendly, polite form of validation, is all that Steve needs. If everything else that happens that day explodes in his face, Steve can at least hold on to the fact that Bucky liked the sandwich he brought him.

They settle onto the same bench they sat at during their last walk, and already, it feels comfortably routine. It feels like it’s _theirs._ Steve settles next to Bucky, settling the sandiwch bag on his lap, and taking out its few remaining contents.

“So how’re you doing?” Steve asks, carefully unwrapping his own tuna sandwich, before passing a napkin to Bucky. “How’s your day gone so far?”

“Mm,” Bucky says, wiping a little bit of mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. He tucks a few loose strands of hair behind his ear, almost absentmindedly. It shouldn’t have been such a charming gesture, but it was, and Steve finds himself smiling, something blooming in his chest, making his entire body feel fuzzy and warm.

“ _Mm_?” Steve echoes, as he takes a bite of his sandwich. The tone has a friendly little lilt to it, making it clear that it's not an attempt mock, not an attempt to demean, but rather, an attempt to allow Bucky a chance to answer, if he wanted to—less a _prod_ than a nudge. Steve, of all people, recognized the importance of allowing an easy, comfortable way out of a conversation, after all.

Bucky shrugs, crumpling his trash into a little ball. “It’s not a bad day.”

“Not a bad day doesn’t mean a good day,” Steve replies, watching Bucky.

“It’s been—slow,” Bucky says, sounding tired, though not the kind of tired that comes from a bout of physical exhaustion. His tiredness sounds like he kind of that comes when one is tasked with too much or too little to do. All that exhaustion seems to ebb, to dissipate, when Bucky meets Steve’s gaze. “It’s been a slow day. But it’s a good day. Now that I’m here with you.”

Steve, eternally fifteen—at least with this boy—ducks his head, feeling flattered and embarrassed. He thinks he can hear Bucky chuckling at him, but he’s comfortable. He knows that he’s not being laughed _at._

“You’re just a natural charmer, aren’t you?” Steve asks, elbowing Bucky, just slightly. Bucky squirms at the gentle ribbing, laughing as he does. “Bet your dance card’s awful full.”

Bucky laughs at that, softly. He’s shaking his head, and Steve is mesmerized by the way that his hair sways, even tied back like it is.

“Nah. Nah, no one’s asking me out or anything.” he says, casually, seemingly focused on a spot in the grass. “Well. No one but you.”

Steve blinks at that. “Huh.”

“ _Huh?_ ” Bucky echoes, tilting his head to look at Steve.

“I’m just—that’s surprising,” Steve says, leveling with Bucky, who looks surprised and confused, “You’re a really great guy. Dunno why other people wouldn’t see that.”

“Jeez. You flatter me, you know that? Keep on talking like that, and I’ll get a big head. And with my fucking forehead? That’d be no good, no good at all. Can’t risk that,” Bucky jokes, completely deadpan. The snort that Steve makes is sudden, and messy, and undignified. He’s lucky that he wasn’t eating then. Choking on a tuna sandwich was _not_ a good way for Captain America to go. When he looks over, Bucky is grinning at him, looking satisfied, charmed, even. The idea of Bucky going out of his way to make him laugh is a little too much for Steve to bear, given how little dignity he had left. He’s glad, then, when Bucky continues, more seriously: “But who knows. Guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Lucky me,” Steve says, without a single hint of irony. His sandwich, half-eaten, sits like an indescribable weight in his lap.

The sounds of the park continue unperturbed as a heavy veil of silence falls between them, somewhere between comfortable and awkward. Steve continues to pick at his sandwich, but somehow, he doesn’t feel all that hungry. His stomach feels _fuzzy,_ but not sick; less nausea, and more the feeling of walking barefoot through the grass.  

“What about you?” Bucky asks, not suddenly, but seemingly out of nowhere, still.

“What _about_ me?” Steve repeats, bemused.

Bucky shrugs, making the motion of tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, despite the reality that there are no loose flyaways there. “Anyone special?”

Steve smiles, warm and sweet, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest. “No one but you.”

Bucky looks up at Steve, his lips parted just slightly, that soft, surprised look of his all but engulfing Steve. There’s hardly six inches’ worth of distance between them. It would be easy to hold hands with Bucky, to link their tuna-covered fingers together and sit there, basking in the warmth of _their_ park. It would be so _easy_ for Steve to silently, covertly express how he felt about Bucky, then and there. It would be easy, even, for Steve to kiss him.

But he doesn’t.

Steve keeps his hands to himself. Another silence falls between them, comfortable, still, but loaded, buzzing with things that _were said_ and things that still _need to be said_ and things that _won’t be said._ Steve’s heart still feels fuzzy and soft, but he feels like he’s stumbled; Bucky makes him feel like a newborn fawn, bumbling cluelessly through the emotional minefield that was their relationship.

They sit in that semi-comfortable silence for an indeterminate amount of time, neither making a move. Steve etches the moment into his mind, like he did with the walk over, memorizing the sway of the grass and the trees, the eclectic clash of birdsong and the muted din of the city, the comfortable warmth of Bucky sitting beside him. He files that moment away for the week ahead, for whenever he would need a mental break—for when peace was all but impossible, and fighting seemed like it would last forever. But of course, that moment there—that brief peace in the park—could not last forever, either. Eventually, Bucky lets out a deep breath, takes his trash in his hand, and stands up, slow, as if not to startle Steve.  

“Well,” he says, sounding neither disappointed nor relieved, “I gotta head back. Books to file, archives to care to, you know.”  

“Lemme walk you back,” Steve says, carefully wrapping up his half-eaten sandwich, and putting it back in the deli bag.  

“You’re such a gentleman,” Bucky jokes, though not unkindly. “I think I can safely make my way back to work, though, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you never know. Lots of danger out there these days.”

“Right, right,” Bucky laughs, “Like I’m going to be snatched up by gang of knife-wielding art history grad students between here and the library.”

“Hey,” Steve says, grazing the edge of his _Captain America_ voice. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened in Brooklyn.”

Bucky shrugs, grinning. “You got me there.”

“Alright. Well, come on. I don’t want Dot to start thinking I’m a troublemaker for keeping you out too late,” Steve says, before they fall into one of their comfortable silences again, as they were wont to do.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky laughs, and they walk back to the library together, Steve leading the way. The walk feels quick, almost instant, like they’re back at the Martinelli the second they step away from that bench. At the front entrance, they stop, hovering at the entryway, like it’s a first date, with Bucky not yet making his way inside, and Steve feeling hesitant to leave.  

“Thanks for spending time with me again. And for lunch,” Bucky says, tossing his trash in a can by the door.

“Thanks for letting me steal you on your lunch break,” Steve replies. They’re standing _so_ close.

“It’s not stealing if I wanted to go,” Bucky says with a smile. “And hey—just know you can come in any time you like. I don’t want you to feel like you’re only allowed to visit me during my lunch break. Any time you're around, I'd be happy to see you. Besides, if you come in and I’m busy, it’ll give you more reason to check out what we’ve got.”

From the sound of his voice, Steve can tell that Bucky wants to see more of him. In his own, roundabout way, he’s asking Steve _Can we do this again sometime?_ and _Let's do more things together_. Bucky, too, sounds like he wants to take the next step—whether that means a romantic relationship or not. And that, small as it is, offers a flicker of hope to Steve.

Which makes it hurt so much more when he has to let Bucky down gently.  

“Oh, hey, uh—that reminds me. I—I don’t think I’ll be able to make it next week. Gonna be away for a week. Maybe two,” Steve says, feeling more and more guilty with each second. “You know. _Work._ ”

“Oh,” Bucky says, casually, calmly. He’s clearly trying hard not to sound disappointed. “No, that’s okay. Gotta do what you’ve gotta do. Fight the good fight.”

“I’m gonna be pretty off the grid, and I’m not sure how long this op is gonna take, exactly. Supposed to be the better part of a week, starting Saturday, but things come up. You know,” Steve starts, trying hard not to look away from Bucky. “But I’m gonna try to text you. As much as I can, I mean.”

Bucky looks worried, genuinely worried, telling from that deep frown. “Steve, you don’t have to.”

“It’s not like you’re forcing me to check in on you. I’m gonna message you because I want to. I like talking to you,” Steve says, because _I like having you in my life_ is far too intimate than is acceptable among friends who’ve—though having known each other for months—have only had lunch with one another twice.

“Steve—” Bucky says, his tone a warning.

“Bucky. _Buck._ I’m not gonna do anything that’s gonna get me killed. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be fine. Alright? I just—I wanna hear from you while I’m outta town, if I can. It’d mean a lot to me.”

Bucky lets out a defeated-sounding sigh. “Alright. But don’t—don’t go running into trouble just ‘cause you’re texting me, yeah?”

“I won’t. Promise.”

“Alright,” Bucky says with a nod. He still looks worried and unsure, but he seems to have reached acceptance. “Alright. Good. When you’re back in the states, though, you lemme know.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Steve says, warmly. 

“Hey. Be safe, okay?” Bucky murmurs, stepping closer, concern clear on his face. It absolutely breaks Steve’s heart. All Steve wants to do is wrap him up in a tight hug and stroke his hair, to assure him that they’ll _both_ be alright. He wants to press up close—closer than they are, even now—and kiss Bucky, like he saw other troops do with the girls they were leaving stateside, all those years ago. Instead, he just puts his hand on Bucky’s right shoulder, squeezing it tight. He’s surprised to find it’s not as soft as his big, plush sweater would make it seem—but files that thought away for a more appropriate time.

“I will be,” Steve says, softly, “You know I’ll be.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, nodding, his voice even quieter than Steve's own. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I gotta go, but I’ll keep you updated, alright? Who knows? Maybe this op will be over before we know it,” Steve lies, knowing fully well the complicated situation he’s about to go into.

“Yeah. Alright. Good luck,” Bucky says, and Steve, painfully, turns to leave. He gets about five feet out, peeling off into the sidewalk slowly, each step feeling like he’s being pulled away from his own heart.

“Hey, one last thing, Steve,” Bucky calls out, from his place at the library's entrance. Steve looks up, almost too enthusiastically.

“What’s that, Buck?”

“Can we—can we FaceTime?” he asks, sounding tentative. A little unsure. As if he didn't know what he was doing. “Not tonight, but before you go?”

Steve smiles, his heart, once uncomfortably distant from its body, now settling comfortably in his chest.

“Yeah, Buck. I’d love to. Of course.”

**\---**

Because there’s no rest for the wicked, on Wednesday, Steve has an appointment.

On the way to Manhattan, Steve’s mind is completely occupied, a fuzzy haze of thoughts he’s juggling and anxieties he can never fully put to bed. He thinks about the mission ahead, going over strategies and formations again and again and again, working out scenarios in his head, worrying over whether this battle plan is truly airtight. He thinks about Wanda, about how she’d never replied when he tried to check in. He thinks, as always, about Bucky.

But the issue with worrying about battle plans is that nothing can be accounted for with one-hundred percent certainty. And the issue with worrying about Wanda is that if Steve keeps pushing, it might make her more uncomfortable. Steve, slowly recognizing that only one of his thought-spirals can be dealt with, does the only thing he can: he texts Bucky. 

> ME [12:09 PM]: I need a distraction from myself. Do you mind if I ask you to humor me?
> 
> BUCKY [12:13 PM]: Not at all, bud!
> 
> BUCKY [12:13 PM]: It’s what I’m here for :P

Steve manages a small smile, letting out a slow, heavy sigh. The chaos in his brain does not dissipate, but it steadies—not getting better, not yet, but thankfully not getting worse. 

> ME [12:14 PM]: You’re the tops, Buck.

To that, Bucky sends over a gif—a cutesy cartoon skeleton clutching its face as it blushes. Somehow, even in that little gesture, Steve finds himself blown away at how Bucky was just so naturally _charming._ Only he could manage to make a cartoon skeleton seem charming.

> BUCKY [12:19 PM]: Well, work’s been slow so I don’t have any good library stories that I can use to distract you
> 
> ME [12:19 PM]: That’s fine.
> 
> BUCKY [12:20 PM]: Okay
> 
> BUCKY [12: 20 PM]: How about this
> 
> BUCKY [12:21 PM]: I used to play this game with my sisters when we would go on long road trips or to keep them awake and out of trouble when I’d walk them to school
> 
> ME [12:22 PM]: Tell me.
> 
> BUCKY [12:24 PM]: Look at all the people in the subway car

Steve glances around the subway car. It’s just like every other train from Brooklyn to Manhattan, especially during that time of day—crowded, stuffy, but not yet packed-to-the-gills.

> BUCKY [12:29 PM]: Did you do that?
> 
> ME [12:30 PM]: Yes.
> 
> BUCKY [12:30 PM]: Now pick out a person. Doesn’t have to be the most fashionable or whatever, just someone who stands out to you

Taking another glance around the subway car, Steve tries to do just that. There’s two black boys, reading a comic book and giggling to each other about something within it. There’s a Hasidic man, leaning next to the doors. There’s a pair of fashionably-dressed Asian women, one of whom, is holding a ceramic milk jug. There’s a white guy with a handlebar mustache and beard, looking like he stepped right out of the 1890s, jamming out to something on his iPhone. There’s a woman in a hijab carefully wiping snot from her baby’s nose as her son chatters excitedly about dinosaurs. There’s a woman with her hair shaved short, _Lavender Menace_ muscle tee showing off intricate tattoos and muscular forearms. There were some bespoke businessmen types, stressed student types, and folks in between. The people of New York City—in all their resiliency and simplicity and diversity—are in that car, represented in one way or another. And Steve was one of them, just another New Yorker, on his way to someplace else. It’s calming. Humbling.

Eventually, Steve settles on his subject, an older woman in a sweater sitting across from where he’s standing, deeply engrossed in a book. The text, from what Steve can tell, is in Cyrillic. He texts Bucky, ready to move forward.

> ME [12:36 PM]: Alright. I picked my person. Now what?
> 
> BUCKY [12:36 PM]: Now
> 
> BUCKY [12:37 PM]: This is the fun part
> 
> BUCKY [12:37 PM]: Try to come up with a fake life story for that person

Steve smiles at the challenge, before quickly tapping out a friendly response.

> ME [12:39 PM]: A whole life story?
> 
> BUCKY [12:40 PM]: Yep
> 
> BUCKY [12:40 PM]: Name, friends, family, job, deep, dark, secrets
> 
> BUCKY [12:41 PM]: All those things
> 
> BUCKY [12:41 PM]: Then tell me about it

Coming up with a convincing fake backstory wasn’t part of Steve’s usual repertoire. Natasha was so much better than he was at coming up with complicated backstories on the fly. It was her job, after all. But Steve is nothing if not dedicated when given a challenge. So he tries. For Bucky, he tries.  

> ME [12:53 PM]: Okay. She’s an old woman, Eastern European. Russian or Ukrainian. Her name is Olga, she’s 73 years old. She moved to Brooklyn after the war. She was a soldier, but none of her kids or grandkids know that. She’s on her way to stay with her daughter and her grandkids right now. That’s all I’ve got.

Steve looks up at the woman again, still engrossed in her book. He wonders how far from the truth he is. He wonders what sort of stories she _actually_ has to tell. He wonders if anyone is thinking the same thing about him. When his phone buzzes in his hand, he’s still thinking about it.

> BUCKY [12:58 PM]: Nice one!

He smiles, tapping out a quick reply.

> ME [12:58 PM]: How’d I do?

Bucky’s text comes in just as the train begins to approach the platform. Steve’s able to skim it over and send off a quick reply just before the doors open.  

> BUCKY [12:59 PM]: Did great! Maybe you should start writing :P
> 
> ME [1:00 PM]: Thanks. I’m not that good with words, though.

The old woman, not-Olga, does not rise to leave. Steve steals a glance at her, briefly, as he leaves, still thinking about Bucky’s little distraction; still thinking about the sheer vastness of stories contained within one subway car. He wants to tap out a thank you to Bucky, as he’s heading out onto the sidewalk. He wants to thank him for reminding him of the wonder of cities, of existing in New York. He wants to thank him for everything. Instead, he sends him something completely different.  

> ME [1:11 PM]: Have you ever noticed those ads on the subway advertising plastic surgeons? As someone who had their appearance drastically altered by a doctor in a white coat, I can’t say I would go along with it all the same if he’d put out an ad on the subway.
> 
> BUCKY [1:14 PM]: Omg
> 
> BUCKY [1:14 PM]: Yeah, same

Steve snorts at the response, for reasons including, but not limited to, the inclusion of that innocuous little _same_. He’s about to send over a snarky response when Bucky breaks in, quickly sending a barrage of texts, sharply diverting the course of their conversation.

> BUCKY [1:21 PM]: STEVE
> 
> BUCKY [1:21 PM]: STEVE
> 
> BUCKY [1:21 PM]: STEVEN
> 
> BUCKY [1:22 PM]: THERE IS A FAMILY WHO JUST CAME INTO THE LIBRARY AND THEIR DAUGHTER IS DRESSED UP AS PRINCESS CAPTAIN AMERICA

That—the concept of a little girl dressed as Princess Captain America, _and_ Bucky’s sheer joy at it—makes Steve laugh. Out in the middle of Manhattan, her barks out a laugh, loud and visceral and completely unacknowledged by everyone else on the crowded sidewalk. Steve taps away at a response, and just keeps on walking.

> ME [1:26 PM]: Princess Captain America? Gotta say, that’s a new one.
> 
> BUCKY [1:27 PM]: Would it be weird to tell her I know you? 
> 
> BUCKY [1:27 PM]: Wait no that would be totally weird, never mind, sorry I mentioned it
> 
> ME [1:30 PM]: That’s so cute.

Before he knows it, Steve makes it to his therapist’s office, a S.H.I.E.L.D.-operated entity, tucked into the third-floor offices above an old coffee-and-donuts shop, hiding in plain view. As he makes his way through the shop, past the bathrooms, and up through the hidden stairway, Steve realizes that he was able to ride out the worst of the storm without his anxiety leaving him too worse for wear. Sure, he might not have felt completely at ease. And sure, he still had lingering discomfort at the prospect of _going_ to therapy, even months into it. But he knew, with at least some renewed confidence, that he could do this.

When Steve arrives in front of a familiar door, he stops suddenly, just short of entering. He has no intentions to turn back, but taps out a quick message to Bucky before he makes his way through:

> ME [1:43 PM]: I’m about to walk into my therapist’s office, so I’m going to put my phone on silent mode. But Bucky, thank you. I needed someone to talk to. Funny enough, I always get anxious before I go to these things.
> 
> BUCKY [1:45 PM]: No worries Steve
> 
> BUCKY [1:45 PM]: I did too, when I was still going
> 
> BUCKY [1:46 PM]: And like I’ve said before, I’m always here for you <3

Steve warms at that, his entire day brightening at the sight of that little emoji heart, confidence welling up in him like it's high tide.

> ME [1:47 PM]: Thank you, Bucky. Thank you.
> 
> ME [1:47 PM]: I’m going now. I’ll talk to you soon.
> 
> BUCKY [1:48 PM]: Talk to you soon, Steve!
> 
> BUCKY [1:48 PM]: Good luck! :)

Followed by that last text, a string of hearts—more types than Steve ever realized there were; more than he realized there could be. With that feeling of solidarity, of care, still lingering in his mind, Steve takes a deep breath, keying in the unlock code and pushing through the door.  

Yeah. He could do this.

**\---**

“Good afternoon,” Steve’s therapist—Doctor Rebecca Kaplan, PsyD.—says, in that soft, comforting voice of hers.

“Afternoon,” Steve replies, all but automatically.

There’s a brief silence between the two of them. Doctor Kaplan flips through her notes, briefly, as Steve sweeps his gaze around the office, not for the first time. Nor would it be for the last time. When Doctor Kaplan meets his eyes, Steve takes a deep breath, working up the truly enormous amount of courage it took to speak first. “I—I have a few things I’d like to talk about.”

It’s been a slow process getting used to the neutral-calm, vaguely safe environment of Doctor Kaplan’s office. Between therapy _never_ being an option when he was coming up, and his general mistrust of S.H.I.E.L.D.-aligned agents, Steve’s hypervigilance was never completely gone, and it sprung up from time to time, when in therapy. If it weren’t for the fact that Doctor Kaplan came on recommendation from Directory Fury _and_ Natasha, Steve wouldn’t have even stepped foot in the office.

Of course, taking the first step was always difficult, and he knew that. Even when it was just taking the first step towards starting a conversation—as Steve had done today.

“What would you like to talk about, Steve?” she asks, half-smiling, balancing her pen delicately in her hand.  

“I—“ Steve starts. “I’m seeing someone.”

“Oh?” Doctor Kaplan intones, already beginning to take notes.

“Well—no. I mean. Not _really_. It’s—he’s—we’re just friends, right now. But I really, really like him,” Steve admits. Even in his therapist’s office, even just _talking about_ Bucky, has him smiling. “He’s funny, and he’s cute, and he’s kind, and I think maybe he thinks the same way, and I just—I want nothing more than to take him by the hand on one of our lunch dates and tell him that I just—I just want to kiss him.”

“It sounds like there’s a _but_ coming.”

“Yeah. It’s—I’ve just—I want this. _But—_ but I don’t know if—” Steve starts, suddenly feeling self-conscious of himself. He is hyperaware of his language, of his posture, and though he _knows_ this space is a neutral space, he treads very, very carefully. “I don’t know if it’s the right move. I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“I see,” Doctor Kaplan says. “And how long have you and him been meeting?”

“Uh—just. Just a few weeks.”

Doctor Kaplan nods, making yet another a note in her pad. Steve suddenly feels judged; what’s more, he suddenly feels the need to justify himself—to prove he’s _not_ obsessed with some man he just met. To prove that he—that Captain America—is adjusting to modern life in a healthy way. 

“But—but we knew each other for months beforehand. We were friends before we started going on these lunch dates,” Steve adds, “I—I think I might have fallen for him then. Before he knew I was—you know. _Me_.”

“I see,” Doctor Kaplan says again, watching him with that same professionally friendly expression. “So where did you meet him, this friend of yours?”

Steve’s gaze immediately drops to the floor. The floors are an inoffensive shade of brown, just like everything else in the room. “I—uh. We met—we met online.”

“On a meet-up website?”

“No, no. On Instagram. I, uh—I post my art, under a pen name. He started liking my posts and commenting on things, and then we started talking,” Steve explains. “It all happened pretty organically.”

Doctor Kaplan hums, seemingly, in understanding. Steve always wondered how much she—how much _anyone_ —could understand his situation. It wasn’t like there were many other lonely, anxious, once-frozen, now-unfrozen Brooklyn-native supersoldiers out there.

“So, you’re close to this friend of yours. And you have feelings for him. But you’re hesitant to tell him these things,” she repeats, her voice understanding and neutral. As always. “Correct?”

“Yes,” Steve says, feeling worn out already. Therapy might have been helping, and this might have all been a necessary discomfort, but Steve was ready to be out of there. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Now, Steve,” Doctor Kaplan says, “This hesitancy to make your feelings known, this is fitting into a pattern of yours. You’re quite intelligent. And when it comes to your work, you’re willing to make split-second decisions quite easily. You’ve shared your anecdotes from some of your previous operations that show that. Even your time at Camp Leigh, what you've shared of it, shows that.”

That was true. That was all true. But that couldn’t have been everything—she couldn’t have ended their session there. And she doesn’t, continuing on with the second half of her evaluation after about a half-minute of silence. Just enough time for Steve to prepare himself for what she was about to say next; just enough time for him to prepare for the _but._

“But when it comes to your personal life, Steve, you have this preemptive anxiety. You overthink all the possibilities—ten, twelve steps into the future. And that restricts your ability to move forward. You are a master military strategist, but trying to strategize your personal life will trap you in a cycle of overthinking and anxiety. You need to break that cycle. Try to look at situations you’re overanalyzing in your personal life, and make those decisions and _act_ ,” Doctor Kaplan says, firm, but not harsh. She leans back slightly, her pad in her lap and her pen in her hand. “What do you think about that, Steve?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Steve murmurs, breathing slow. She wasn’t wrong, calling him out like that. But it was going to be a lot easier said than done. He didn’t want to ruin the good thing he had with Bucky. Not after all the time they’d spent working up to where they were—not after all the mistakes Steve was still trying to work to repair. But she was right. As difficult as it was going to be, Steve knew it as solid advice. And just that recognition—the knowledge that Doctor Kaplan was _right_ —was exhausting.

“It might also be helpful to look inside yourself, and understand _why_ you’re so hesitant to make a move with your friend. Ask yourself, _what happened in my past to make me hesitate?_ ” Doctor Kaplan continues. “Why don’t we do that, very briefly? Try to answer that question.”

Facing the question and knowing the answer were two very different things, and though he could very easily list the causes of his anxiety and hesitation in social situations, Steve wasn't sure he was entirely ready to speak them. It was hard, facing the full truth. But he still had to do it.

“I guess,” Steve starts, after a while, with a little difficulty, “I guess growing up, I never really connected with anyone. Never got the chance to learn how to be friends with people, between getting sick and getting picked on. I got rejected a lot, got targeted a lot, and I had to stick up for myself a lot. I got a chip on my shoulder.”

“That sounds hurtful. Especially for a kid who’s already going through so much,” says Doctor Kaplan. She doesn’t move to write notes, though she probably wants to. Instead, she keeps eye contact with him. It’s somewhere between uneasy and comforting.

Steve swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, it was. I mean, I grew a thick skin, eventually. I mean, I had to. I learned how to throw a punch, I learned how to fight, and I tried to defend other people like me, other people who couldn’t. But them, after I got the serum, I could never tell who saw me for me, and not—you know. _Captain America._ Except for Peggy, but we—that didn’t—that ended. Very abruptly.”

Doctor Kaplan nods. “That, I imagine, was very difficult for you. Anyone in that situation would have trouble coming back to a relationship, even without your history. It would be hard, learning to let yourself be close to someone again.”

“Yeah. And besides that, there was the whole—you know—” Steve starts, motioning vaguely in the air. “I mean—people think that us queers didn’t exist back then, and I’m not saying we didn’t, but—we had to be careful, is what I’m saying.”

“That sounds a very difficult time to have lived, and a very difficult time to let yourself be vulnerable,” Doctor Kaplan says, and Steve nods. “But now that you recognize that cause for your anxiety, and how that—along with Peggy, along with this chip on your shoulder—has made it difficult for you to move forward and move on, you can acknowledge when you’re acting from a place of hurt, and you can move to break that cycle.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice more broken than he thought it would be. “Yeah. I can.”

She nods. There is a pause, a chance for Steve to parse Doctor Kaplan’s advice. A chance for him to gather himself up again, after sharing those difficult details, not for the first time, but always, with some difficulty.

“Well, Steve, do you have anything else you want to bring up from this week?” Doctor Kaplan asks eventually. Steve, feeling somehow infinitely heavier and infinitely lighter at the same time, sighs, heaving a little shrug.

“I, uh,” he starts, “I dunno if we can get to the rest of the week in the time we have left. It’s a lot. I—I really think that’s enough, for this session. If that’s alright."

“I understand. In that case, when should we meet again?” Doctor Kaplan asks, knowing fully well how unconventional Steve’s schedule was.

“I’m not going to be able to come in next week,” Steve says. She nods, not asking for an explanation. She knows. Maybe not the details of the op, but she knows. “Can I do the first thing on Monday the week after? Maybe nine or ten?”

“Does nine-thirty work?”

Steve nods. “That’s perfect.”

“Well then, Steve,” Doctor Kaplan says, after marking him down on her computer, “That’s it for today, then. I’ll see you Monday after next, at nine-thirty. And if anything comes up, or if you just need to reschedule, feel free to call the office or text me on my secure line.”

“Thank you, Doctor Kaplan,” Steve says, rising from the too-plush office couch. She nods, a little goodbye, a little _you’re welcome_ at the same time, and Steve steps out, feeling wrung out, but not entirely worse-for-wear. He wills his body down to the first floor, back into the coffee shop. Back into the too-bright, too-loud outside world. But not before he gets his regular post-therapy coffee and donut.

As he waits patiently in line, behind non-S.H.I.E.L.D. civilians and plainclothes agents alike, Steve takes out his phone, just as something to look at; just as a distraction from the noise in his head and the heaviness in his chest. He has no new texts, no new emails—nothing but a little red notification bubble, floating in the upper right-hand corner of the Instagram icon. Steve taps it on autopilot, making his way to check his DMs within seconds. And when he sees what the notification is, he's glad he does.

Sitting in his Instagram inbox is a new message from Bucky: a photo of a little girl, no older than three or four, wearing a bright pink tutu over a dark blue Captain America Halloween costume. In her hand, she’s holding a picture book— _I Am Steve Rogers,_ complete with a cutesy illustration of Steve, matching Captain America uniform and all. This image—posted to the Martinelli’s official Instagram page—is paired with a personal message from Bucky:

> _@imjamesbarnes: For you <3_

Seeing that—the costume, the book, the sweet little message from Bucky—brightens Steve’s day. Bucky made his life better, just as he did earlier. Just as he always does. Steve grins, and if the deep cover S.H.I.E.L.D. agent manning the cashier has to yell at him a little because Steve forgot he was in line, well—that was okay. 

**\---**

Thursday morning, Steve sleeps in. It’s not that Wednesday’s session with Doctor Kaplan had been particularly difficult. In fact, it had been one of less heavy sessions Steve had experienced, in his brief time going to therapy. But Steve needed the rest. He needed a chance for his body to breathe, even if he had a healing factor that astounded the scientific community. And so, throwing his usual routine to the wayside, Steve sleeps in, waking up at 10:17 AM—all but mid-afternoon, comparatively.

When Steve checks his phone, he has a few texts waiting for him: one from Natasha, asking to sit next to him on Friday’s flight, one from Sam wishing him good luck, and two from Bucky—a simple good morning, and then, two hours later, a picture of a vintage storybook illustration.

> ME [10:20 AM]: Sorry, I Slept in. You said you wanted to FaceTime before I left. How about tonight, around seven? Maybe seven-thirty? Does that sound good?
> 
> BUCKY [10:23 AM]: Yes, sir :)

That message is followed by a chain of patriotic emojis, and a waving hand, perhaps, Bucky’s attempt to convey a salute through emojis. He was clever, and his emojis were cute, but that one was a miss. Steve would still give him points for trying.

Sleeping in—as nice as it is—always throws Steve’s routine off. At ten-something in the morning, it's too late for a real breakfast, but too early for lunch, and a lonely Thursday morning is no reason for a celebratory brunch. Steve settles on a meal of cold takeout, eaten mindlessly as he scrolls through headlines on his phone. It leaves him feeling somehow full but unsatisfied, and he goes through basic acts of hygiene sluggishly, as if the greasy noodles had completely weighed him down. By the time Steve has his teeth brushed and his face washed and his hair combed, it’s quickly approaching noon.

Still in the comfy clothes he went to sleep in, Steve settles on his couch, going over battle plans for the billionth time since he proposed them. Nothing has changed since he last looked at them; no new holes, hiccups, or glaring mistakes made their appearance overnight. Steve stares at the plans in front of him, drawn up in his own familiar handwriting on his tablet, the dark lines stark against the gleaming white screen. He stares at it until his eyes burn, waiting for a realization that will never come.

Eventually, Steve pulls himself away from his tablet, blinking quickly. Time, somehow, moved too quickly while he was poring over his plans, and noon has long since passed. Outside, the sun is high and bright in the sky, and Brooklyn bustles, buzzing with after-lunch energy. Steve puts his tablet aside, trying hard to ignore the fuzzy, floating shapes, the negatives of his battle plans burned onto his eyes. What he _can’t_ ignore is the buzzing in the back of his brain, the lingering doubts as to the veracity and safety of his battle plans. And as much as Doctor Kaplan's sessions have helped, Steve can’t ignore his anxiety, or his lingering fears, or his restlessness. 

So instead of sitting in his apartment, instead of hyper-fixating on every single pixel, every single miniscule detail of his battle plans, Steve moves to do something else. 

He goes for a run.

**\---**

Going out for a run in the late afternoon doesn’t help settle Steve’s feelings of unease. All the familiar faces he’d gotten used to on his regular routes were gone. Every now and then, schoolchildren making their way home would stop and stare. The regular scenery was all off and discolored in the afternoon light; Steve almost felt like he was running through an entirely different city.

So he keeps running. He runs until he’s out of Brooklyn. He runs he thinks he’ll start to burn. He runs until the sun begins to dip below the city skyline. He runs until he checks his phone for the time and quickly realizes—he made plans, and he needs to be home.

Disappointed and defeated, Steve texts Bucky, knowing fully well he won't make it back to his apartment before seven-thirty. 

> ME [7:15 PM]: I’m sorry, Bucky, but I can’t FaceTime right now. Would you be okay if we talked later tonight?
> 
> BUCKY [7:20 PM]: Sure
> 
> BUCKY [7:21 PM]: How bout I call you as soon as I get home? Sound good?
> 
> ME [7:21 PM]: Yes. That sounds good. Thank you, Bucky. I’m real sorry.
> 
> BUCKY [7:23 PM]: It’s okay, Steve :)
> 
> BUCKY [7:23 PM]: I’ll call you around 9:30? 10?
> 
> ME [7:23 PM]: I can do nine-thirty or ten. I’ll talk to you then.

Steve pockets his phone, feeling heavy and despondent. He doesn’t run when he makes his way to the closest subway station. Somehow, he can’t find the energy to anymore. The ride back to Brooklyn is long and bumpy and claustrophobic, and, because New York had no sympathy for Steve, stalled by forty-five minutes because of— _something._

Steve, pressed up against the subway pole, sighs.

It would have been faster for him to run back home.

**\---**

Bucky calls that night, just as promised, two minutes after ten. Steve had his laptop up and ready for Bucky’s call for an hour and a half beforehand. The bright, chiming tone of a call incoming was the best thing Steve heard all day.

“Hey,” Bucky says, as soon as their call connects. He’s wearing a big, fluffy gray sweatshirt, and his hair is down from its usual bun, looking loose and fluffy.  

“Hey,” Steve replies, “I’m, uh—I’m sorry I’m late. I went for a run, and I lost track of time.”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s fine. Life happens. I’m just glad you told me.”

He was taking it on the chin like a champ. That made Steve feel even more guilty, but then again, that seemed to be the trend in their short-lived offline relationship.

“So,” Steve says, so he doesn’t end up in an embarrassing shame spiral, “Other than Princess Captain America, how's work been the past few days?”

Bucky shrugs. “Fine. The usual. Quiet, as always.”

“Oh,” Steve says. Then, suddenly realizing his neutral tone could be misconstrued as disappointment, he adds, “Well, at least there was Princess Captain America.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, a slow, almost sleepy smile spreading across his face. He looks at Steve, smiling, watching, for a few quiet seconds before he speaks again. “Yeah. I guess that’s true. What about you?”

Steve lets out a deep breath. “Oh, you know. Prep work. That sort of thing. Today was, I dunno. It was a day. Cleaned my place, went for a run. Just—getting ready for, you know. The trip.”

Bucky watches him, those stunning blue eyes all but glowing electronic on Steve’s screen. “Are you okay? _Will you_ be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, the mission, it’s—it’s gonna go fine. I mean, there’s never gonna be a _zero_ percent chance, but—it’s gonna go alright.”

“ _Steve—_ ” Bucky starts, in a tone that Steve has already started to lovingly think of as his _Mom Tone._

“It’s going to be fine, Buck,” Steve says, which doesn’t seem to convince Bucky. “ _I’m_ going to be fine. Not my first firefight, like I said.”

"Okay," Bucky sighs, and thought Steve might be imagining it, Bucky looks like he's come to terms with the mission ahead; he looks, if only slightly, more at ease. 

A silence falls over them, comfortable—not in the same way their in-person silences are comfortable, but comfortable all the same. Steve could spend the night FaceTiming with Bucky, not saying a thing; it would be enough just to _be_ with Bucky.

Suddenly, Bucky laughs, breaking that silence. His voice is soft—almost as soft as his comfortable sweatshirt looks.

“I’m sorry I asked you to FaceTime, and I don’t have much to say,” Bucky says, looking a little sheepish. “It’s just—I—I just wanted to see you.”

“It’s alright,” Steve says, gentle and genuine, “I wanted to see you again, too.”

That earns another smile from Bucky—the sleepy one again. It occurs to Steve that he’s been witness to a whole variety of Bucky smiles. He considers himself lucky for that. He wonders what Bucky has witnessed of him, what Bucky considers himself lucky for. With Steve admiring Bucky—admiring that smile—it’s only inevitable that they fall into another comfortable silence. But as much as he enjoys that comfortable, inevitable silence between them, Steve knows—much like he knew in the park—they can’t stay there forever.

“Well,” Steve says, “I should go. It’s late, and I don’t wanna keep you. You’ve got work and I’ve got a flight.”

Bucky nods, chewing his lower lip. _God_ was it a good look on him, worried as he might have been. “Be careful, will you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will,” Steve says, fondly. “I’ll call you. Whenever I can, I’ll call you. Promise.”

“Good. Great. Good,” Bucky says. “Well, I’ll see you?”

“Of course,” Steve says. That was a given. He would fight all of Hydra and its many splintered heads all by himself if he had to, just to see Bucky. He would do it without thinking twice.  

 “Well—“ Bucky says, “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, Bucky,” Steve says, and the last thing he sees before the connection fades out is that same sleepy smile.  

**\---**

Steve leaves New York on Friday at noon, on the dot. He lands in Sokovia ten hours later, and is suited up and on his way to a remote base in the Sokovian woods five hours after that.

Everything’s a blur of flights and firefights after that.

To his credit, his battle plans were airtight. All his anxiety, all his nervousness over missing something, over accidentally allowing for his team to get hurt, came out to be unfounded. Each raid went along smoothly, more or less; Hydra in the Sokovia-Russia region were neither organized nor resource-rich enough to take the Avengers by surprise.

But fighting non-stop for a week was just so _exhausting._

He’s standing in the burned-out shell of a former Hydra base—the largest Hydra base of this cycle of raids—his hair plastered to his face with sweat and grime, several days' worth of stink heavy in his suit. This was their last mission in their most recent round of guerilla raids, and he’s glad for it.

Not that Steve hated his job—he liked the rush and clarity and physicality that came with a mission. He was _compelled_ to fight bullies—to fight bigots—wherever he could. Steve was biologically drawn to doing what was right; he was, quite literally, built to fight, to do good, even before Erksine _._  

But this op was _rough._ Even with the serum, Steve is _worn out,_ and smelly, and bone-tired. He can count on one hand the times he's gotten to sleep over the length of this op, and he's not entirely sure what day it is. As much as he liked the beats of a fight, as much as he knew he was doing a job few else could do, Steve's just glad that major leaders were in custody. He's just glad the op is over.

He’s just glad that he’ll be going home.

They would be out of region and in the air soon. All they needed to do—all _Natasha_ and her little squadron of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s intelligence agents had to do—was finish up with their intel work, and from what Steve could tell, it wouldn’t take long. As if on cue, Natasha, with an armful of files and a USB stick hanging from her neck, nods to Steve.

“You need help?” he asks her, but she shakes her head.

“I think I can handle a few reams of paper, Rogers,” she says, hip-checking him as she walks by. “ _But._ I would use this time to talk to Wanda, if I were you.”

She nods again, pointing with her chin. Steve really wishes she would let him help her, but Natasha would rather chew off her own arm than ask for help. Instead, he pats her on the back—gently, so as not to rustle any papers—and makes his way over to Wanda, catching her breath on a semi-flat pile of concrete.  

“Hi there,” he says, sitting next to her. She smiles at him, tired and cautious.

“Hi,” she replies quietly.

“Holding up alright?” he asks, and she nods.

“Yeah,” she says. And that’s all she says, for a minute, leaving them both to sit together in uncomfortable, prickly silence. Steve never truly appreciated how comfortable even the most awkward silences were with Bucky until he found himself facing silence with someone else. Eventually, gratefully, Wanda speaks up. Steve didn’t want to be the one to break the silence.  “Steve? I’m sorry for not replying to your email.”

He turns to her, slow, trying to come across as understanding, trying to come across as _safe._ “It’s alright. Just wanted to check in on you. I know it’s hard, all you’ve been through in the past few years. And getting used to being part of this team—getting used to being responsible for people’s lives, for the safety of the whole world—hell, _I_ still stumble on it, and I’ve been at this job since the 1940s.”

She smiles at that. That makes Steve feel good, knowing he could make Wanda smile.

“Don’t think that you’re alone, Wanda,” Steve says, “I might be Captain, but I’m not your _boss._ Don’t think I’m not here for you. You can come to me for anything. Even if it’s just the best ways to drown out Stark when he tries to give you one of his gross, long-winded celebrity stories.”

“Thank you,” she says, “I very much appreciate that, Steve.”

“Of course,” Steve says. They fall into a lull—something slightly more comfortable, this time, but Steve still feels the need to fill the silence. He unsnaps the clasp from one of the pockets on his belt, and takes out a handful of small, round things and he offers some to Wanda.

“Hard candy?” he asks, only about a quarter ironically.

And _that_ earns him a laugh.  Hearing Wanda laugh makes Steve laugh, too. Exhausted as he is, knowing that she trusts him enough to laugh with him—and _genuinely_ laugh with him—makes Steve feel energized. It makes him feel good.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” she says.

“Your loss,” he says with a shrug, unwrapping a caramel and popping it into his mouth. She shakes her head, but she’s smiling, still.

Natasha, arms no longer full of files, strides up to Wanda and Steve, dusting her hands off on her pants. “Hey, kid. Grandpa.”

“Tasha. Want a hard candy?” Steve offers. She takes the remaining two, and pops one in her mouth—who she’s planning on giving the other one to, Steve couldn’t say. Clint, maybe, or Sam, if she's willing to wait that long for rendezvous.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your heart-to-heart, but we’ll be wheels-up in a few," she says, her words slightly muffled, buy the candy. "You want to walk over together? I don’t want to make small talk with the baby S.H.I.E.L.D. agents any more than I have to.”

Steve shakes his head. “You go on ahead, I’ve just gotta—I’m gonna make a call.”

“We can wait for you,” Wanda says, and as much as he’s glowing over the fact that she’s quickly warming up to him, he wants to have this conversation alone.

“It’s okay. But let’s make a date. You, me, and Nat, after we’ve slept off the jet lag. Let’s get some coffee. I’ll buy.”

“Oh,” Wanda says, “Okay.”  

Natasha nods. Whether or not she recognizes who, specifically, he’s about to call, is unclear—but she at least understands. “We leave in ten. Make it quick.”

“Can do, Widow,” he says, and she nods, walking with Wanda up into their stealth jet.

Steve makes sure they’re out of earshot before he presses _call_. He’d been ready to speak to Bucky all week. He’d been ready to speak to Bucky the second he was in the air. With each repetition of the connection tone, his heart seems to jump higher and higher up into his throat. Suddenly, the connection tone cuts out, and Steve feels himself buzzing with excitement, when the voice on the other line says—

_The number you have dialed cannot take your call. Please leave a message after the tone._

Of course. _Of course._ Steve’s soul sags, as he realizes the time difference between Sokovia and New York. His phone lets out a little _beep,_ and he takes a deep breath, unsure what he’s about to say, but knowing he has to say _something._

“Hi,” Steve says, “I know it’s about—God, I dunno, five in the morning over there? I’m real sorry if this message wakes you up. It’s just—”

Steve takes a deep breath, running his gloved hand over his face.

“—it’s just that—work’s been really tough. And I know I’ve been kind of AWOL on the communication front. I’m sorry about that. We had a quick timeline. You must be worried sick. Just know I’m okay, and I’m coming home soon. I know I probably should have called later, when you were awake, but I wanted to call you as soon as I could. I—it’s been a lot, Buck. And I just—I miss you.”

Maybe it’s because of his exhaustion, or maybe it’s because he’s finally getting in contact with Bucky after a week, but Steve’s throat feels tight, and he feels he has shown too much of his hand. He clears his throat, continuing on, trying hard to steady his voice before he speaks again.

“Anyway, I’ll see you soon. Thanks—uh. Thanks for listening, Bucky. Bye. Miss you.”

He hovers over the _end call_ button, debating whether to re-record the call. Steve, realizing that he’s wasting time, ends the call, sending the message to Bucky—and sending his _heart_ along with it.

A few minutes later, as Steve is buckling up for the flight home, his phone buzzes, shaking wildly in his pocket. He wastes no time getting out, all but trembling when he sees there's a new text alert on his screen. He spends an inordinate amount of time scanning that vital one-line message over and over again, as if it could disappear at any moment.

> BUCKY [5:06 AM]: I missed you, too.

Steve lets out a slow, shuddering breath.

He can’t wait to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's my birthday, so my gift to you and yours: this giant-ass chapter that's been slow coming, and to tell the truth, not as well-edited as it could be :/ this is a long, long chapter, but i felt like i couldn't snip it anywhere, so - here's all of it. i'm going to try to be better about length in the next few chapters (i can't play all my cards at once, after all) but i'm getting very, very wordy as this thing progresses. 
> 
> \- bucky’s [“reading is sexy” mug is real and it's the greatest thing it's ever seen](https://buyolympia.com/Item/mug-readingissexy)
> 
> \- and [here is some art phoenixgryphon drew of bucky and that fantastic mug](http://phoenixgryphon.tumblr.com/post/165380320593/stvff-he-says-through-what-looks-like-a). she's the best and sent me an australian care package, so send her all your love!! 
> 
> \- i included an irl friend in the brooklyn to manhattan subway scene. see if you can guess who it is. the gender traitor shirt is also real, and it is also among the greatest things i've ever seen.
> 
> \- rebecca kaplan is less based off [rebecca kaplan in the young avengers comics](https://comicvine.gamespot.com/rebecca-kaplan/4005-40581/) (since she had like, hardly any characterization in those) and more of a mix of my previous therapist and my current primary therapist.
> 
> \- i really hesitated on whether or not i should write in a section where steve actually goes to therapy for this fic, but after plotting out this chapter without it, i thought it was a necessary addition. i based steve’s experience of therapy on my own in the broad sense, but that said, i don’t have any sort of clinical training, and so i apologize for any inaccuracies or problems with this portrayal, and i am happy to fix it up if there are problems. :>
> 
> \- the I Am Steve Rogers book is, in this universe, part of the orindary people change the world series by brad meltzer and christopher eliopoulos, one of my favorite marvel comics illustrators. because there are _totally_ steve rogers children's books. how could there not be? he's probably at the same level of historical importance and modern myth status as the founding fathers, in the MCU. anyway. we used to carry this series at the store i used to work at, and if you have little ones or know someone who does, i really recommend them.
> 
> grad school started up for me this month, so it's back to the grind, but i imagine this year will be better than the endless hell parade that was last year. that said, i don't have an "official" posting schedule because of my workload, so i'm gonna have to ask for patience. thank you for putting up with the sporadic updates in the meantime. <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> home, again.
> 
> (or: you can never go home.)

After the Sokovia mission is settled and all the paperwork is done, Steve does what anyone in his situation would do.

He sleeps, for about two days straight.

Three days after Steve returned to New York, he wakes up at dusk exactly, feeling rested for the first time in a month. He doesn’t hesitate to slip back into his regular routine, running until the sun comes up and then some—but he doesn’t run until his body almost gives out. He doesn’t run aimlessly, like he does when he’s more or less running from his anxiety.

Steve follows the beats of his morning routine, because Steve, for the first time in weeks, is feeling _great_.

When he slows his run to a walk, New York is already fully awake. For breakfast, he stops by a neighborhood bakery, picking up a bag of flaky pastries and a hot, creamy coffee. Spring is in full bloom, and soon, as quick as it came, it’ll be gone, replaced by the sticky heat and rude tourists of New York in the summer. He might as well enjoy it while he could. Steve settles on a bench, part of a little sliver of grass that passes as a park, and takes out his phone.

> ME [9:33 AM]: Morning, Buck.

The reply comes almost instantly—practically the second he sends the original message.

> BUCKY [9:33 AM]: Steve! :D
> 
> BUCKY [9:33 AM]: How have you been?
> 
> ME [9:35 AM]: I slept for what felt like another forty years, but I’m awake now. I just got done with my run, I’ve got coffee, and a bag full of croissants. So, my day is going well, compared to last week. Especially now that I’m talking to you.
> 
> BUCKY [9:35 AM]: Aww, Steve

He sends over that blushing skeleton gif again. Steve wonders if he had to search for it, or if he keeps it in his phone just for occasions like this. He smiles regardless, the idea of making Bucky blush making his chest feel like all the parks in all the world, in bloom. Though Bucky might have been the one to send it, Steve suddenly feels an odd kinship with the cartoon skeleton looping on his screen.

> BUCKY [9:36 AM]: You flatter me, you know that? :P

_Always,_ is what Steve replies, before taking a big bite of his hazelnut-crusted pastry. Bucky sends over a chain of hearts and happy, smiling emojis in response, just as sweet as the sticky-warm chocolate filling of the croissant. Wiping his mouth, Steve taps away, eventually sending over a text that doesn’t leave him having to talk to Bucky about how he _really_ feels about him.

> ME [9:40 AM]: So, what are you doing today?

The reply comes a little later than Steve expected. He worries, for a while, that he offended Bucky somehow, changing the subject like that, but a reply comes shortly, interrupting that moment of panic.

> BUCKY [9:53 AM]: The usual
> 
> BUCKY [9:55 AM]: I do get to go through some donated books though so that should be fun
> 
> ME [9:55 AM]: Sounds neat. Do you mind if I drop by?
> 
> BUCKY [10:01 AM]: Today?

As if that wasn’t evident—as if he wouldn’t drop by to see Bucky _every day,_ if it were a possibility.

> ME [10:03 AM]: Yeah, why not?
> 
> BUCKY [10:05 AM]: Well, if you’re free, I’d love to see you :)

Steve smiles, tapping out a quick response.

> ME [10:05 AM]: Great. I’ll stop by sometime today.
> 
> BUCKY [10:06 AM]: Sounds great!

It _did_ sound great.

**\---**

After finishing his breakfast, Steve doesn’t feel like going home. The weather is just too nice, he’s feeling too good, and he’s going to stop by and visit Bucky, anyway. It doesn’t make sense to go back to his apartment.

Instead, Steve decides to go for a walk. It’s a scenic, comforting experience, accompanied by a cool spring breeze and row after row of picturesque Brooklyn brownstones.

Eventually, he arrives at the library, far earlier than he’d intended. He contemplates texting Bucky, but quickly puts his phone away, another spontaneous idea sprouting in his mind, quick as a daisy weed. Bucky _had_ said that Steve could visit any time he liked. He could just show up and visit Bucky then. It would be nice, after all, to give Bucky a surprise. It was settled. He wouldn’t waste any more time waiting. Steve had done a lot of waiting with Bucky, and he was still waiting for a sign that Bucky had _feelings_ for him. No point in waiting any more than he was.

When Steve enters the library, the smell of books and wood hits him straight-on. It’s quickly become comfortable and familiar. Steve basks in it, just for a second, before noticing Bucky is not at the front desk. Instead, in his usual place, is Dot—Dolores, as her real name was, though Steve was already nicknaming her in his head. Her face is pressed close to the monitor, there’s a cart of books by her side, and typing away very, very slowly.

“Hi,” Steve says, as he approaches the desk. Dot looks up quickly, pushes up her glasses, smiles up at him.

“Steve,” she says warmly, her gray curls bouncing as she moves away from the computer screen. “You’re here early.”

This is the first time they’ve spoken face-to-face. It’s their first time meeting, _period_. But the way that she greets him is like she’s talking to an old friend. Steve wonders how much that has to do with Bucky. He wonders, briefly, what sort of things Bucky has said about him. He considers, even more briefly, how rude it would be to ask.

“Yeah, thought I’d go for a walk, and I ended up here,” Steve half-lies, with a smile and a little shrug.

“Right,” Dot says, giving a little nod, as if that’s happened to her before, too. Somehow, without even knowing her, Steve would believe it. “Well, I assume you’re looking for Bucky?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies, almost bashfully. “Not that I wouldn’t like to talk to you. You just seem—you know. Busy.”

“That’s polite of you,” she says, and her voice is soft and genuine. “But you know what, you remind that Bucky of yours to remind me, I’ll _really_ have to buy you a coffee one day. We can shoot the breeze, talk about old Brooklyn—I’m sure we both have stories.”

Steve grins at this. She smiles at him, too, over his glasses, as if they share a secret. He doesn’t know how old Dot is, not exactly, but there’s a grit in her grin and a bounce to her voice that makes Steve understand they’re both old, old Brooklyn natives. He might not know it for sure, but he knows it deep in his soul—both of them have been with the city since before the yogurt bars and microbreweries and rampant _fucking_ gentrification. With this understanding, Steve—old, old Brooklyn native, all the same—responds to Dot’s invitation in kind.

“Hey, no, my Ma raised me well, if I’m gonna take a beautiful lady out on the town to share stories, she’s not gonna be the one to pay,” Steve jokes. This earns a laugh from Dot, and Steve can swear he sees her blushing. “Ma Rogers always said, _Stevie, we might not be rich, but you find a nice girl, you treat her well, you bring her to dinner, you take her out._ Never been one to disrespect my Ma, Dot, so I’m sorry, but like it or not, I’m paying for you.”

The way she laughs is electric. It’s almost too loud for a library, but Steve wasn’t going to say anything. It’s not like he _worked_ there, after all.

"Cripes, you're a charmer," she says, her laugh low and croaking and full of _life_. "I talk to you for half a minute, and you've already charmed me more than half the guys at Senior Swing Nights, _and_ you have all your teeth. God. Sure don't make 'em like they used to."

Steve shrugs, feeling flattered, all the same. "I'm not too special. Sure there's a fella out there. Just gotta find the one-in-a-million for you." 

“Eh. Maybe. Or maybe I'll just steal you away from Bucky,” she says with a laugh, dotting her eyes with the back of her hand.

That earns a blink and a bit of a stunned silence from Steve, and he wonders if she really means what he thinks she means. He wonders, for a second, if it's _that_ clear how lost he is for Bucky. He wonders if Bucky has been saying the same things he's has been sharing with Natasha; he wonders, not for the first time, if Bucky feels the same way he does; if Bucky has feelings for him, too.

“Well, speaking of him, you're probably excited to see him, aren't you?" Dot says, adjusting her glasses, oblivious to the swarm of thoughts going on in Steve's head. "He’s been in the basement all day, so your best bet is finding him down there. Just yell, sound travels well in those halls. He'll find you.”

“Thanks,” he says, bolting off—in part, to meet Bucky, but also because he didn’t want to have a conversation if Dot _was_ wanting to have more Bucky-centric conversation. Steve gets about halfway through the maze of bookshelves before realizing he has _no idea_ where the basement is. He backpedals, and before he can open his mouth to ask, Dot answers his question, not even looking up from the book she’s scanning as she does.

“Far right-hand corner of the library, Steve.”

She probably doesn’t see it, but Steve grins as soon as he gets her answer, wide and bright. “Thanks Dot! You really _are_ the best.”

Steve ambles to the basement, bouncing excitedly down the stairs—not bumbling, not like he felt on their previous lunch date—like a days-old fawn. He’s so excited to surprise Bucky that he almost runs head-on into him when he catches up to him in the middle of the stairwell, carrying an intimidating-looking stack of boxes.

“Whoa,” Steve says, narrowly stopping himself from colliding with Bucky using his supersoldier reflexes. It was a close one. “Hi.”

“Oh. Hi,” Bucky says, good-naturedly. He pauses, as if suddenly realizing something, and his eyes go wide, a fleeting moment’s panic rushing across his features. Steve feels guilty, suddenly, but he doesn’t know why. “I—uh. I didn’t think you would be coming so soon."

Steve looks over the stack of boxes that Bucky is carrying. He worries, for a second, that he is a distraction, that he is unwanted, but Bucky’s smiling at him again, nodding in a _follow me_ motion, as he sidesteps Steve carefully and continues on his route.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—it’s just that I have to move these,” Bucky says, not unkindly. Warmly, even. He’s continuing up the stairs, glancing back at Steve, every now and then, to make sure he’s still following. “I’m _really_ glad you’re here, Steve. Really glad. I missed you, while you were off on your uh—your _work trip_.”

Steve hums in response, but the words barely register with him. He’s more focused on Bucky and the load he’s carrying upstairs.

“Do you—“ he starts, frowning, “Do you need help? Getting those upstairs, I mean.”

“No, I’m—I’m good,” Bucky says, and he continues climbing the stairs, not stopping or slowing his pace for a second, “Thanks though.”

Steve bites his lip. The boxes look like they must be heavy. Boxes of books were _always_ heavy, and as someone who moved from Manhattan to D.C. before going back to Brooklyn, he knew that firsthand. “You sure?”

“I’m literally getting paid to do this, Steve. It’s nothing,” Bucky laughs, as if Steve wanting to help him is cute or funny or _something_ , somehow. Steve’s not going to push him, but he follows closely, like a dog—like Bucky might give out any minute.

They travel up to the lobby, then, up another set of stairs, up to the second floor, past the bookshelves, past the study area, and into an unfamiliar hallway. There’s a community corkboard on the way over, outlined with a happy spring-themed border and neatly filled with flyers for library events.

One flyer on the board particularly catches Steve’s eye. It’s nothing simple black text on a canary-yellow sheet of paper reading, in bold print: _THIS LIBRARY HAS NOT BEEN VISITED BY THE FBI OR S.H.I.E.L.D.,_ then, in parentheses, in small font underneath: _watch carefully for removal of this sign._

Before Steve can ask about it further, Bucky is far ahead of him, settled in front of a spartan, mostly-unused office. He nudges the door—left slightly ajar—with his hip, and navigates through a maze of other stacks of boxes, brimming with books, before finding a lone empty patch.

 _Oof_ ,” Bucky says, setting the boxes down on the floor with a heavy _thump,_ somehow not sounding short of breath in the slightest. Or maybe he was trying hard not to.

Steve's protective instinct begins to kick into overdrive, tempered only by the fact that he didn't want to push Bucky away, not for something as small as this. As much as he was worried and confused about Bucky, he was more concerned about coming across as _smothering_. 

“Hey, uh," Bucky starts, "Sorry about that. I didn’t think you would be coming so soon.”

“I know that there are policies about letting non-employees help, but I literally have super-strength, Bucky, you know that,” Steve says, trying to come across as funny, but he can’t hide his concern. Not for a second.

“They’re paperbacks and kids books, mostly,” Bucky says, then, “It was—I mean, it was heavy, but it was, you know. _Manageable_.”

Steve glances at the stack of boxes, still incredulous. But he reminds himself, he was there to say hello, not to start an argument. So he shrugs, conceding to Bucky’s ego, and can only hope that Bucky doesn’t throw his back out later that day.

“You know you don’t have to go out of your way to impress me,” Steve says, “But if it’ll let you accept my help any easier, I’m _very_ impressed.”

Bucky ducks his head at that, his long, dark eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. It’s then that Steve is _actually_ impressed with Bucky, his breath leaving his chest in an inaudible little sigh. It’s been a long, long time—decades, close to a century now—since he’s felt this way about a person, where he finds himself blown away by even the smallest, most mundane parts of them. It terrifies him and exhilarates him all at the same time.

“Well, hey,” Steve says, realizing his voice is coming out far more gentle than he’s used to. He clears his throat, deciding to chalk it up to the pollen in the air, if Bucky asks. “I know it’s a little early for lunch, and you’ve probably got some important work to do with all—uh. _This_. But do you want me to run out and get you some coffee, or something? Maybe I could hang out here and keep you company while you go through these?”

Bucky smiles up at Steve fondly, shaking his head. “I got coffee on the way to work, and I'm pretty sure Dolores will run up here just to yell at me about migraines if I even consider having any more. But thank you.”

“Any time,” Steve says, and he means it. Bucky could ask him for anything and he’d do his best to deliver.

They enjoy a fuzzy, comfortable silence there, as they always seem to do, this time, among the precarious stacks of boxes and books. Steve knows that he should leave Bucky to his work, that he should just check out more books and make his way home, but he can’t seem to will himself to move. And from the way that Bucky doesn’t leave, or continue whatever he was doing with the mountains of books, maybe he wants Steve around, too.  

“Hey, while we’re here—“ Bucky starts, after a while, softly, slowly, looking unsure, as he speaks. “This might be weird, so stop me if this brings up anything too fresh, but—do you wanna see our Carter exhibit?”

Steve blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. Though Bucky meant well, the question hit Steve like an accusation, like a challenge. Did he want to see the Carter exhibit, proof that the first—and so far, _only—_ love of his life was now part of history? Could he manage to get through it, knowing that seventy years under the ice and five years in the new century had passed since he kissed Peggy goodbye?

Was he truly ready to accept the fact that she’d moved on? Was _he_ ready to move on?

Clearly, Bucky takes Steve’s silence as a no. He slumps into himself, looking horrified at the prospect of having hurt, even if unintentionally. “I’m sorry, Steve, I shouldn’t have—that was a dick move—it was an inappropriate thing for me to ask—“

“No. No, I—“ Steve starts, stopping Bucky in his tracks. He takes a breath and looks Bucky in the eye—smiling tight, but genuine. “I’d actually like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Bucky meets Steve’s gaze, like he’s looking for a sign; like he’s waiting for Steve to change his mind and say _no._ Steve just keeps his gaze steady and his breathing calm, trying to steady the rocky current churning in his mind. When Bucky nods, he doesn’t ask Steve if he’s sure, he doesn’t try to dissuade him. Steve is grateful for that. He’s glad they don’t have to have conversation that would follow. He’s glad when Bucky just nods, starts out the door, and says, the picture of professionalism:

“Follow me.”

**\---**

Being in museums where things from the war were on display was always felt both surreal and hyper-real, all at the same time. Steve could accept the time he missed, the legacy people set up for him with his own exhibit, if only barely; he could look at everyday objects turned into artifacts, and _understand_ , odd as it was. But seeing Peggy, appreciated for all her accomplishments, honored for all the things she did in the seventy years that Steve was gone, it was something else. Walking into Peggy’s exhibit feels like crossing a threshold. It’s overwhelming—it’s feels like a full recognition of the time behind them.

And Bucky—patient and understanding enough to be canonized a saint—just stands to the side as Steve sweeps slowly through, waiting and watching, his presence a comfortable, steadying weight by Steve’s side; less a brick tied to his ankle, and more a buoy tethered to harbor.

“Why do you have all this?” Steve asks, his voice barely above a murmur, not looking up from a notebook lined with unfamiliar handwriting, but filled with familiar stories.

“We’ve got the largest collection of documents, books, and artifacts by, from, and relating to Peggy Carter, probably outside of the Smithsonian. It’s about half of what we do. Well. Half of half—most of the preservation and curation work we do is about Angie Martinelli herself,” Bucky says, clearly reciting from a tour he’s given dozens of times before, but his voice far from displaced and routine; his heart is in those words, rote as they might be, and Bucky sounds somewhere between sympathetic and trepidatious.

“But where did you _get_ it all?” Steve asks, moving on to look at a lipstick-stained napkin with what looks to be Peggy’s handwriting on it, sealed in time behind durable plexiglass. _Rendezvous, fire escape, third floor. 10:15 PM sharp. Don’t be late._ Those last few words send something off in Steve’s chest, echoing some of the last things he heard before bringing the Valkyrie down. Briefly, he regrets asking Bucky to show him this place, this testament to a woman who shook the world—to one of a handful of people who Steve loved, and who loved him back.  

“Well,” Bucky starts, not unkindly, his voice going soft, as if he’s suddenly become witness to the full extent of heartache Steve went through, after the ice. “Most if it came with the building or were donation from the estate. The Martinelli used to be a _home,_ after all, and these are the things that were kept over the years.”

That’s a comfort to Steve, knowing that someone cared enough to hold on to the things Peggy left behind.  “She—she was very loved.”

Bucky lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing it tight, with a warmth that radiated and filled Steve. When he speaks, when he echoes Steve— _she was very loved—_ it’s the verbal echo of that physical gesture: comforting, without taking pity. Steve puts his hand on top of Bucky’s, a _thank you,_ without the words, and they stand like that for what could have been another seventy-something years, easy. It’s the closest, most intimate gesture they’ve shared. Steve aches when he realizes it’s time to pull away.

**\---**

The rest of the exhibit is easier to get through, after that. Not painless, but easier. Steve doesn’t stay at the Martinelli much longer afterward, making an excuse about not wanting to steal Bucky away more than he already has. The train back home feels still and quiet, even in spite of the subway’s regular rumblings and the detatched, artificially-polite voice announcing stations and _saying something if you see something._

He’s hungry again when he gets home, his stomach aching in addition to his heart. Making real food seems like too much work, so Steve throws a frozen meal—a frozen paella bake, something he grabbed off the shelf when he’d last gone grocery shopping with Natasha—into the oven, grabbing a slice of bread to chew. While he waits, chewing the slice of farmers market sourdough slowly, savoring the crispness of it, Steve does something he should have done a long time ago—he goes on the Wikipedia page for the Martinelli Public Library.

Through his adventure through the Wikipedia rabbit hole, Steve learned the following:  

The Martinelli Public Library is the former home of Angela Martinelli, former stage star, film star, and, later in her life, prolific author. She had a grand amount of wealth, but no children, and willed all her assets to the city, on the condition that the land never be sold to commercial entities, and her home turned into a public library.

Angela Martinelli was very, very close friends with Peggy Carter. It’s said that her most famous series, _The English Rose_ , is based on Peggy’s life and legacy.

Some scholars speculate that Peggy Carter was one of Angela Martinelli’s lifelong loves.

The knowledge settles heavy in Steve’s chest. Not in a bad way. Not in a good way. It just _settles_. Not like fallout after the bombs, not like a broken stallion, but like a river stone settling in a pond—heavy, cool, and inevitable.

Peggy lived a life. Peggy loved and _was_ loved. Peggy moved on.

And so too, as inevitable as the feeling settling in his stomach, would Steve.

**\---**

Natasha sets up the coffee date between the three of them—herself, Wanda, and Steve—though it’s less a coffee date and more a _take me to this festival happening in the park._ They find themselves sitting on the grass, colorful smoothies in hand, a cardboard basket of sweet potato fries to share, and a borrowed blanket protecting them from the dewy late afternoon grass.

“How’s combing through the intel?” Steve asks, and Natasha rolls her eyes, picking at the fries to find one that isn’t particularly soggy.

“It’s like wading through the sewers to find gold,” she says. Wanda makes a face, looking put off from her green smoothie after that metaphor. “But we’re finding some interesting things. As we suspected, there are a few clear leaders beginning to emerge after the collapse. Strucker was gunning to unite all of Europe’s Hydra cells before we took him out, and it looks like he still has a following in Western Europe. There have been mentions of a Zemo, mentions of a Schmidt, and—guess who.”

The devious quirk to her lips gives it away. Steve groans. “It’d better not be who I think it’s going to be.”

“Who is it?” Wanda asks, completely lost. Of course. She wasn’t with them in D.C., when Hydra first came to light and scattered after the collapse of the Lumerian Star initiative, like cockroaches after the lights go on.

“Mister Brock Rumlow,” Natasha says, disdain dripping from her tone, “He’s going by Crossbones now, apparently.”

“He always wanted a nickname. Of course he gave one to himself,” Steve says, drawing a messy caricature of Rumlow on his napkin, before scribbling it out. “Dunno how much you can trust that intel, though. Rumlow’s hardly fit to lead a STRIKE team, nonetheless a whole organization.”

“Sorry, who’s Rumlow?” Wanda breaks in to ask.

“The guy who broke Steve’s heart,” Natasha jokes, deadpan, and Steve throws his balled-up napkin at her, before course-correcting immediately.

“We don’t joke about those things,” Steve admonishes, and Natasha grins around her own pinkish-purple smoothie. “Brock Rumlow was part of Hydra-in-S.H.I.E.L.D., and we worked a lot of missions together. He was the definition of asshole.”

“Next time you’re at a bar or a party and you get negged by some hyper-macho finance bro with a bad haircut and worse cologne, just name him Brock Rumlow, because he’s _that kind of guy_ ,” Natasha says, and Wanda makes another face, this one, more disgusted than the one before.

“Is Rumlow back in the country?” Steve asks, “Is that why Hydra’s funneling weapons stateside?”

“I don’t know yet. The cells we got intel from seem to be mostly in the dark as far as the _whys_ go, and everything’s being ordered third- and fourth-hand. Whoever’s in charge of this wants to cover their tracks. And I don’t know who that is for sure yet. All we know is that however is in charge is planning something big,” Natasha says. A solemn silence falls over them. Steve nods, realizing he’s setting his jaw in that way that Natasha makes fun of, the way that only _Captain America_ can. Wanda looks nervous, running her thumbs over her sleeves, just trying to do something with her hands. Natasha takes a last, loud slurp from her smoothie, breaking the tension, if only barely. “That’s enough talking shop. We didn’t come out here to work, after all.”

“Right,” Steve says, sitting up a little straighter. “Well, how’re you both doing? Recovering well after last week? Nat? Wanda?”

“Are you asking as Captain, or as a friend?” Natasha asks, eyebrows raised.

“As someone who cares,” Steve answers in turn, and Natasha hums, conceding point made well enough to Steve.  

“Fine. Getting some rest. Doing that intel work in between, so it keeps me busy. But I’m taking care of myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Wanda nods. For a while, Steve was under the impression that she was just uncomfortable speaking with him, but he’s starting to think she’s just naturally very quiet. “The same. I—I’m tired, still. I’d had trouble sleeping ever since moving to New York, but it’s getting better.”

“And you’re taking care of yourself, yeah?” Steve asks, and Nat shoots him a look, making him realize how paternalistic he sounds. “Sorry, I mean, I’m glad you’re acclimating. Getting better, and taking care of yourself is important. So that’s—that’s good.”

“Steve’s a native, but take it from me, this city takes a lot of getting used to. Practicing self-care is very important,” Natasha says, carefully measured, her tone just on one end of neutral. “Me, personally, I like taking ice cream walks, but it’s different for everyone.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, tilting his head. Wanda glances from him to Natasha, her hands folded neatly in her lap, no longer fidgeting. “What is an _ice cream walk?_ ”

“Glad you asked. Here’s how you do it. Step one, ice cream. Step two, walk,” Nat answers, and her tone could be mistaken for serious, if it weren’t for the fact that it was _full of shit_. Wanda bursts out into a little snort. Natasha grins at this, and Steve, too, is smiling, even if the joke is _sort of_ at his expense. “It’s real new-age stuff.”

“I thought you were being serious,” Steve says, shaking his head.

“I am! Doctor Kaplan recommended them to me. They combine being active and treating yourself, and they’re a great way of clearing your head, _Steve,_ ” Natasha says, and he can’t see Doctor Kaplan ever recommending such a thing to him, but for Natasha—maybe for Wanda, even, down the line—he can see it.

“Funny. She just tells me to stop over-analyzing things and ask a guy out for once,” Steve half-jokes.

“Well,” Natasha says, and that _well_ hangs in the air, heavy and imposing, as Natasha watches Steve. The way she looks at him, the way she pores him over, looking for any hint to the situation, is almost physical in its intensity.

“Who are you seeing, Steve?” Wanda asks, still seated straight-backed and hands folded, but her eyes sparkling with renewed interest. “Is it someone working with us? Is it an Avenger?”

“It’s Tony,” Natasha answers quickly, and Wanda gapes in the millisecond before Steve jumps in.

“Jesus Christ, Natasha, stop _lying,”_ Steve says, exasperated, and Natasha grins, smugly chewing her straw, as Steve works to correct for her little lies. “He doesn’t work with us. He’s a civilian. He works in Brooklyn, in a library.”

“Oh,” Wanda says, “What’s he like?”

And wasn’t that the question. Steve takes a deep breath before answering, not so much because he doesn’t know how to answer, but so he doesn’t ramble on and on and on about all the things he likes about Bucky.

“Well, he’s cute. And he’s smart. And he’s kind,” Steve says, not mentioning the ways that Bucky warms up his life in the same way all the slush and black ice of the world gets cleared away by the gentle warmth of spring. He realizes it’s a complete echo of what he said to Doctor Kaplan. Yet somehow, describing Bucky to people never gets old. “And he’s good about the whole _Captain America_ thing, which is _so helpful._ ”

“He sounds lovely,” Wanda says, and she’s smiling at him, warmly, and Steve can’t help but blush at that.

“Yeah,” he says, ducking his head a little, “Yeah. He is.”

They fall into a lull, after that. The sky is slowly shifting, the bright blues of the afternoon slowly dipping into the muted purples and oranges of dusk. There’s a hazy blue, nestled in between the orange of sunset and the blue-black of the night sky that looks like the color of Bucky’s eyes. Steve wishes for paint, there and then, and regrets not bringing his field kit.

He’s happy for this conversation, for the time he’s sharing with Wanda and Natasha. He’s hoping it makes Wanda feel more welcome, _safer,_ being part of this ragtag superpowered team. He’s hoping that, as much as it’s becoming clear that it’s time to go home, she doesn’t feel relieved that it’s over.

“Well, this has been fun, but I’ve got to get back to working on sifting through those Hydra documents,” Natasha says eventually, stretching. “We should do this again sometime.”

“I’d be happy to,” Steve says. Wanda nods, looking torn over taking the rest of her smoothie with her, or tossing it.

“Wanda? Wanna walk home together?” Natasha asks, sounding like she’s trying hard for _sisterly._

“I have to get groceries,” Wanda says, sheepishly, as she folds the blanket up carefully. “But thank you for the offer.”

 “Then I’ll see you two later, then,” Natasha shrugs, as she makes her way off, trash in hand. “Bye, Wanda. See you later, Steve.”

“Bye, Nat,” Steve says, waving. He turns to Wanda, who already looks ready to return the blanket and leave. “I’m gonna head home. Thanks for coming with us. We’ll do this again soon, yeah?”

“Yes. Yes, that would be nice,” she says. “Oh, and Steve?’

He turns back to her, quickly, “Yeah?”

“When you ask that boy out,” she says, putting a strong emphasis on the _when,_ “I’m sure he’ll say yes to you. So—I’m hoping for you.”

Steve smiles at her, warming up at that advice. “Thanks, Wanda. I’m hoping he will, too.”

**\---**

A few days later, it’s a lazy spring afternoon and all the events of the past few weeks—the Peggy exhibit, talking to Wanda, Doctor Kaplan’s advice, even the text Bucky sent him while in Sokovia—is buzzing around Steve’s head, making him antsy, restless, compelled to _do something._

He checks his phone for the time. It’s not nearly closing time yet, but closing time proper wouldn’t be a good time to make plans for the night. If he were going to take Bucky out for the night, the best time to ask him would be now.

So, with his heart in his throat, and his phone in his hands, Steve takes a deep breath, taking the initiative—the plunge—to ask Bucky to go to dinner, his fingers tingling and stomach twisting with every letter, every character, every second it takes.

> ME [5:43 PM]: Can’t be fucked to cook tonight. Wanna get dinner? I’ll pay.

As soon as he presses _send,_ he throws his phone on the couch, buries himself in one of his library books, and resigns himself to fate. Steve, only half-understanding the words he’s reading, waits.

And waits.

_And waits._

He’s in the middle of typing a follow-up message—a _double text,_ Natasha informed him, with an air of disdain to her voice—in the form of a semi-joking, semi-serious, semi-desperate attempt at levity when his phone buzzes, nearly bouncing out of his hand.

> BUCKY [6:57 PM]: Yes
> 
> BUCKY [6:59 PM]: Oh my God yes
> 
> BUCKY [7:03 PM]: You have no idea how much I need a night out
> 
> BUCKY [7:05 PM]: I would love to go out with you tonight, Rogers <3

That’s followed up by a chain of emojis, hearts and smiles and exhausted little frowns, in between. Steve doesn’t make the effort to decipher what it means, to put thought into every little image attached. He’s too excited at the prospect of _dinner with Bucky,_ a far more intimate meeting than they’d ever had before.

 _Great!_ he writes back, using an exclamation point—hell, he almost felt good enough to include two— _I’ll see you soon. :)_

Steve wants to slump on his couch and sigh, happy and content, into his pillows. But he can’t, not with dinner with Bucky coming soon. No, Steve had no time for basking in everything. Not yet, anyway.

He has to get ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said i was gonna get better about posting monster-sized chapters, but after last chapter, this one feels short. whoops. next chapter is about two-thirds of the way done, and it's a tad longer than this chapter so far, but hopefully it won't be another 10k-sized giant again. 
> 
> some notes, as per usual: 
> 
> \- for those wondering and asking about it: i mentioned in the comments last chapter (two chapters ago?) that we're very close to the one-third mark of this fic. i didn't plan on being this verbose when i was writing, so it's going to go a little bit longer than i expected, but i expect the final product, after all is said and done, to be at about ~120-150k words (just for reference, the word document of the fic so far plus a little bit that i've planned up ahead is at ~80k words). so yeah. that's that. 
> 
> \- also: i added the “not agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.-compliant” tag upon looking up a timeline of cap2. this won’t have any bearing on the content of the fic, but just know – as much as i try to be sharp and canon-comprehensive with this AU, it’s definitely a major canon divergence, given how sprawling the MCU is at this point. also, i don't watch agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., so. 
> 
> \- the signs up in the martinelli are modified warrant canary signs, first created by jessamyn west. you can find copies of them [here on library.net](http://www.librarian.net/technicality.html), and you can read up more about warrant canaries [on this wikipedia article](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warrant_canary). don’t forget: libraries and bookstores are always going to be political, whether overt or not. 
> 
> \- [here’s an article about ice cream walks (and other forms of relaxation) on man repeller](http://www.manrepeller.com/2017/07/how-to-relax.html). i did an ice cream walk before i read this article and it’s super-satisfying. defs not a substitution for formal mental health care, or more pressing forms of self-care, but as far as forms of "soft" self-care go, it’s one i recommend, if that's something you're looking for.
> 
> that's about it for now. grad school this semester is a very heavy workload, but i'm going to post and work on this fic when i can. and thanks for (as of this writing) 400 comments and 9.5k views. i couldn't have ever, ever, ever anticipated such a level of appreciation and love for this fic. it's really beyond anything i could ever have expected, something i'm still struggling to comprehend, and it means all the world and more to me, knowing that people like what i'm trying to do. thank you all so much. really. thank you. all of you. from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> anyway, i've got readings. see y'all when i see you. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the rogers-barnes uncertainty principle; or: ruminations on genetic fate.

It’s about an hour until closing time when Steve arrives at the Martinelli, dressed in a fitted black Henley and dark bootcut jeans. It’s an outfit that doesn’t quite scream to the world, _Hello, this man and I, we are on a date,_ though it definitely comes close. After tying it all together with his familiar brown leather jacket, Steve snaps a picture of himself in the mirror and sends it to Natasha, not because he needs her advice—not this time, at least—but because, as even Steve is willing to indulge, he looks _good._

There’s a bounce in his step as he makes his way into the library. Just as he’s about to cross the street, though, Steve is hit by a brief but intense wave of panic—just another surprise appearance by his anxiety, those familiar, suspicious voices in the back of his head asking if he’s really ready—if he’s really _willing_ to do this.

Luckily, he’s able to shake those thoughts off and make his way into the library. He hopes—with every single bit of him, Steve _hopes—_ he can keep it at bay, at least, for the next few hours. He can’t get blindsided again, not when he’s made so much progress. Not tonight.  

In Bucky’s usual spot is a teenage girl, her nose buried deep in a book—something about sharks, judging from the cover. It’s a warm spring night, and outside, the streets are buzzing with people going to do whatever they do when the world is just too nice to stay in. But inside, the library is quiet and still as if it were a living thing, _waiting._

As Steve makes his way to the counter, he recognizes who the girl is—Kamala, the intern, the one in charge of the Martinelli’s Instagram feed that fateful day. The first person to reveal Bucky to the world, to _Steve._ He feels the urge to thank her.

“Hi,” Steve says, announcing his presence, and she blinks, putting her book down, ever-so-gently. She looks like she’s about to launch into the typical _how can I help you?_ when she freezes, her eyes wide and mouth hanging open, if only slightly.

And there it is. Recognition. Steve would never get used to it, not entirely.

“Oh—uh—I’m—hi,” Kamala says, her entire frame tense and trembling. Steve’s seen star-struck—hell, Bucky was star-struck, too, when Steve first visited the Martinelli—but nothing like this. 

“You must be Kamala,” Steve says, and he puts out his hand to shake, which she just stares at, before taking it, awkwardly. “It’s good to finally meet.”

She blinks, still not letting go of Steve’s hand. “You—you know my name.”

“It’s on your nametag,” Steve says with a shrug, and she glances down, as if to confirm that yes, her name was on her own nametag. “And I follow the Martinelli on Instagram.”

“Oh—oh. Oh my gosh,” Kamala says, her voice all but a whisper. Clearly working hard to coordinate her limbs, she stands, clearing her throat. “Can I—uh. Can I offer you something?”

She probably meant to ask if she could help him find something. But Steve goes with it, anyway, trying to be friendly. “Are you asking if I want something to drink?”

“I—uh, I mean, yeah. We have coffee in the break room, and there’s a dragon’s hoard of Quest bars and snacks in one of these drawers—” she starts, “I mean, they’re _technically_ not mine, but I was explicitly told I could have some if I was hungry, and I don’t think they’d mind if I offered one to you, I mean, you’re _Captain America,_ sir, withholding Quest bars has to be like, an _actual crime,_ or something—“

“No, I’m fine. But thank you,” Steve cuts in gently, smiling. He knows exactly whose Quest bars those are. _Speaking of._ “Hey, is Bucky around?”

“He’s downstairs, we had a little issue with the servers. Wait—” she says. Her eyes somehow widen even more, as she seems to piece _something_ together. “ _You’re_ Steve? _You’re_ the Steve who I keep missing? Holy _cats_.”

Steve shrugs, sheepishly. Kamala gapes, unblinking, for a good five seconds, before she continues, her voice barely a peep: “I—is—are you— _is Captain America dating Mister Barnes_?”

It’s Steve who finds himself struck, then, at her question. What was Bucky saying about him that would lead her to believe they were _dating_? Did that mean he felt the same way? _Is_ Captain America dating one James Barnes?

He tries not to let any of those racing thoughts come across when he answers her—he had to, after all, keep the monster that was his anxiety at bay. Instead, he parries her question with another question: “Does he know you call him Mister Barnes?”

Kamala blushes, looking like she’s been caught doing something embarrassing.

“I only call him that when he’s not around,” she admits, lowering her voice, as if to share a secret. “It’s weird calling him by his first name because _he is a grown-up and what is this—_ but he told me to call him Bucky. So—uh. No. He doesn’t know.”

“You should call him by his name,” Steve says, in that stern-but-understanding voice he breaks out sometimes when he’s _Cap._ “There’s probably a reason he doesn’t want you to call him Mister Barnes.”

“Yeah,” she says, a little guilty, “Sorry.”

“It’s hard, but people’s names are important to them. Even if they’re not there to hear it. So—I get where you’re coming from. I do. But call him by the name he gives you. Even if it’s hard,” Steve says, leaning on the counter a little bit, trying not to come across as friendly, and not too grossly paternalistic _._ That, too, is hard, given that in the time he’d been asleep, he’d somehow become a modern myth. She nods, looking guilty, so Steve tries to throw something in there, something to make it clear that she didn’t disappoint Captain America, the version of Steve she must hold as a hero. “Besides, _Mister Barnes_ makes him sound like a curmudgeonly old man. Or a high school teacher.”

“Yeah, it does. I think he’d probably be a science teacher. Or a history teacher. Or a math teacher,” Kamala says, in a mutual attempt to bring the conversation back to a place more casual. Steve nods, letting out a little laugh, and she continues, “With a moustache. A big, brown moustache. Like a caterpillar on his face.”

“Jeez,” Steve laughs, shaking his head at the thought of it. “I don’t think he could pull off a moustache.”

“Sorry for the mental image,” Kamala says, though Steve isn’t entirely sure how much she means it. Misery loves company, after all, and the image of Bucky with a bushy brown moustache is a miserable one. “When you see him for real, you won’t be able to un-think it. Oh—! Shoot, sorry, I still haven’t told you where he is, have I?”

Steve shrugs. “It’s alright. This was a good conversation. Moustaches notwithstanding.”

She blinks, then smiles, looking bashful and blushing with an intensity that rivals Steve’s full-body blush. If Steve were anything like the celebrity they’d turned Captain America into—if Steve were anything like _Tony_ , he thinks, only a little bitterly—he would have reveled in her hero worship. Instead, he just finds it charming, but not entirely pleasant. Intimidating, in a way. He hopes that he can just become _Steve_ to her someday, just as he had become with Bucky.  

“Mister Ba—uh— _Bucky_ is downstairs,” Kamala repeats, having caught herself and regained her composure quite quickly. “If you head down the staircase, near the back of the library, you’ll see the downstairs bathrooms. Past that are two big double doors marked _Staff only,_ and you’ll want to go through them. Once you go down the big, kinda scary hallway, it’ll fork. The server room will be on the right side, first door on the right.”

“Got it,” Steve says, with a nod. “Thanks, Kamala.”

She nods in return, quite enthusiastically, still. Her energy is infectious. “No prob.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Steve says, because like a dog with a bone, he can’t leave things well enough alone.

“Yeah?”

“Does he—” Steve starts, “Does he _say_ we’re dating?”

“You’re not—?” Kamala starts, and in an echo of realizing that Steve was _Steve_ , her eyes widen, a more horrified expression of recognition slowly dawning on her. “Oh—oh. Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, you’re not—I just assumed, with how he—and how you—and Dot was saying—oh my gosh, oh my gosh oh my gosh I’m _so sorry_ —”

“Hey,” Steve cuts in, putting his hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. Between you and me, we’re not, but—”

He trails off, tapping his nose with a little smile as he leaves for the basement, letting her fill in the rest. 

\---

“Thanks for doing this, Doreen,” Bucky is saying when Steve peeks his head into the server room. He sounds exhausted, and looks it, too. There’s a giant shaker bottle of something of an indeterminate color in his hand, and he’s wearing a loose, slouchy cardigan in a dull, sad-looking gray. His messy bun looks messier than usual, and there’s a beat-up mini spiral notebook half-hanging out of his cardigan pocket. He hadn’t texted Steve that much that day, and looking at him, looking at the tension held in his shoulders, Steve can see why. Whatever must have happened that day must have been hectic.

“Bucky Bear, even if this weren’t like, my _literal job_ , I’d _still_ be back here saving the day with the dust bunnies,” a young woman—presumably Doreen—says, poking her head out from behind a tangle of wires and big, dusty servers. She’s chipper, almost disturbingly so, an incredible contrast from Bucky. “The Martinelli and I go way back!”

“And that’s why we love having you,” Bucky says, his voice tired, but the sentiment no less genuine. “You know, if you get a better job offer after you graduate, we’re _screwed_.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, trying to brush it off, but clearly very, very flattered, even half-obscured behind all the blinking machines. “You know, you shouldn’t even be in there with that thing. Can’t have you spilling anything on the goods.”

Bucky snorts, but he takes a few careful steps back, nonetheless. “Maybe the servers need their protein, ever think of that?”

“Jeez. You guys really _are_ screwed,” she jokes, shifting to send a look to Bucky. She seems to notice Steve as she does, meeting his eyes briefly, and, somehow, seemingly, understanding his purpose immediately. He wonders, not for the first time, if he really wore his fondness for Bucky that clearly on his sleeve. “Heads-up, Bucky Bear. Looks like someone’s waiting on you.”

Bucky turns to look, and his expression visibly shifts, brightening the second he sees Steve. “Oh. Hi.”  

“Hi,” Steve says, coming a little closer, feeling like he’s making his way out of the shadows. He likes to think that the way Bucky’s gaze flicks up and down him means that Bucky’s taking him in, admiring the way he’s dressed to impress. “Am I interrupting something?”

Bucky glances from Steve, to Doreen, then Back to Steve. “No, I—we’re—”

“Go, go,” she says, her hand poking out from behind a tangle of wires to wave him off. “I can handle this on my own.”

“You sure?”

“Again. My _literal job_ that I’m going to school for.”

“Alright—” Bucky starts, and there it is again, that _Mom Voice,_ this time, not directed at Steve. “But you need me, you text me right away, alright?”

“Will do,” Doreen says, and Steve doesn’t know her, not in the slightest, but he trusts that Bucky has her word, all the same.

Bucky makes his way to Steve, tucking strands of hair behind his ears as he does—perhaps, Steve thinks, in a way to come across as presentable. He leads Steve upstairs, out of the server room, out of the basement and into an intimate little corner of books. In that spot, next to an emergency exit, Steve and Bucky are nicely hidden from the rest of the library, hidden from the rest of the world. It makes Steve’s body buzz with a funny sort of energy, an anticipation of _something,_ of _anything._ It brings him back to being a teenager, dreaming of a beautiful someone with beautiful intentions taking him to an impossibly-isolated part of the Coney Island pier.  

They smile at each other, Bucky leaning up against the wall, holding that shaker bottle in a delicate grip. The way Bucky looks at him makes Steve feel like a star, like something bright, something that can’t be looked away from—and somehow, unlike Kamala’s hero worship—he doesn’t have a problem with that.

“Your coworkers are nice,” Steve says eventually, returning Bucky’s gentle, friendly smile. 

“Yeah, they’re all a pretty good group,” Bucky says in agreement, before he takes a sip from his shaker bottle.

“I met Kamala, finally. She’s a good kid,” Steve says, and Bucky nods, his hum muffled by his mouthful of— _whatever_ it is he’s drinking. “How come I never run into Kamala or Doreen, though? I see Kamala a lot on the Martinelli’s Instagram, but I only ever run into you or Dot.”

“Doreen only works part time. She and Nancy are in the computer science honors program at ESU, so while they’re geniuses when it comes to shit like what happened today, they couldn’t reasonably do full time. We’re probably going to hire them on after they graduate, though,” Bucky says with a little shrug, absentmindedly shaking the bottle, letting the ball bob wildly in the muddy-looking liquid. “As for Kamala, she’s here as part of an internship program we do with tri-state high schools, and since she has to make her way all the way over from Jersey City, we just let her come in whenever she can.”

“Huh,” Steve hums. Not in agreement, exactly. More in acknowledgement. Recognizing that he received an answer.

“Yeah,” is what Bucky says, as he begins absentmindedly reorganizing a few books on the shelves, putting them back in their proper order. Steve watches him, the way his fingers delicately graze the spine of even the most obscure, beat-up books, and it stirs something in him, something he can’t describe or explain.

“So— _dinner_ ,” Steve says after a while, and Bucky makes that same wide-eyed expression he did when Steve almost ran into him the last time they’d met up; it was only earlier that week, but it already feels like part of history. Part of _their_ history.

“Right. Dinner. Sorry, we’re so busy with the server problems I totally forgot,” Bucky says, shaking his head. He looks guilty. For once, it’s not Steve who feels that way. “I’d love to go out with you for dinner. I would like nothing more than that. I just—we’ve gotta figure whatever’s happening down there first, and then we’ve gotta close up. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course it’s okay with me,” Steve says, shrugging. Even if Bucky said _no_ to Steve’s initial text, it wasn’t like Steve had anything planned as an alternative.

“I’ll be an hour. Maybe a little bit more,” Bucky says in warning. As if that would dissuade Steve.

“Buck, I’d wait ‘til daybreak if you asked me to,” Steve says, and Bucky looks surprised at that. Flattered. Steve shrugs, trying to act casually. As if that was possible, given _Bucky_. “I _really_ don’t wanna cook. And if I’m gonna get something, I wanna take you with me. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t really mean it. So I’m willing to wait. And look—worst comes to worst, you and me and Doreen and Kamala can get a pizza or something.”

Bucky smiles at that, warm and beautiful and breathtaking. He might have looked at Steve like he was a star, but Bucky was nothing short of a supernova.

“Alright. Okay,” he says, his voice soft and sweet. “In that case, I’m gonna head back downstairs and check on Doreen. I’ll meet you at the circulation desk when we’re all closed up. Go have fun, read something new.”

“Will do,” Steve says with a nod, resisting the urge to follow. Bucky grins at this, leaving Steve with one more thing.

“And don’t do anything stupid ‘till I get back, yeah?”

From anyone else, for that, Steve would’ve decked them, or at _least_ given them a good amount of lip. But coming from Bucky, Steve can just _beam._

“Can’t promise you nothing, jerk,” he says, with infinite fondness.   

\---

Doreen really _was_ a genius when it came to computers, because the server issues are resolved and everything is settled no later than an hour after Bucky left. Things move even more quickly after that; Bucky and Steve are settled at a restaurant no later than half an hour after they leave the library, and somehow, either through some perfect alignment of the stars or through someone recognizing Steve is _Steve Rogers_ , they practically don’t even have to wait.

The restaurant—on recommendation from some local magazine that Steve follows on his Instagram—isn’t exactly what he expected. It’s a painfully hip, crowded, small place, neither romantic nor seedy, and decidedly _not_ a date. Except, from the way they’re seated in a quiet corner booth, to the way their waitress addressed them as a _unit,_ rather than a separate pair, the universe seems to think it _definitely is._  

“Thanks for taking me out tonight,” Bucky says fondly, over his plate of pasta and steak—it’s almost double that, on Steve’s side of the table. “It’s like you _knew._ ”

“Hey, thanks for coming with me,” Steve says, equally warm. “Like I said, I wanted to spend time with you. If you’d said no, I’d probably be on my couch, still in my sweats, eating greasy Chinese takeout and binge-watching all the movies I’d missed while I was iced.”

“Huh,” Bucky hums, through a mouthful of pasta. He seems to pause at that, using the time-honored tradition of buying time under the guise of chewing. It was always a touchy subject to people—to civilians, especially—when Steve brought up the fact that he’d _technically_ been dead for the better part of a century. More often than not, people didn’t know how to take it. With a sinking feeling of awkwardness pooling in the pit of his stomach, Steve’s attention darts to his food, hoping that Bucky doesn’t notice he’s stalling for time by doing the _exact same thing._ “You know, actually? That doesn’t sound like too bad of a night.”

Steve breathes out a sigh of relief. That anxious tide recedes, leaving behind a welcome calm. So far, so good. He swallows his mouthful, takes a sip of water, and continues on, trying to come off as never having been anxious in the first place. “Well, hey, if I could have that _and_ your company, I wouldn’t complain.”

“Jeez,” Bucky says, quiet, almost to himself, and he’s smiling, ducking his head, looking bashful as ever. Steve is satisfied at that. Things are back on track.

They share a silence there as they work on their respective dinners, one less awkward than the one that came before it. As much of a _not-date_ as it might be, dinner with Bucky feels intimate, even in its silences, opening up paths yet unexplored, conversations not yet had, questions still left unanswered. _It’s not a date,_ Steve keeps having to remind himself, but in that crowded, tragically hip restaurant, it’s about the next best thing.

And Bucky seems to be on the same page. 

“Can I ask you something?” he asks. “It’s kinda personal.”

“Shoot,” Steve says, cutting into his thick, juicy slice of steak. It’s rare as they make it, and biting into it, even with all the table manners drilled into him for dinners with bureaucrats, satisfies something primal and _hungry_ in Steve.

“Was it—were _you_ okay?” Bucky asks, his tone trepidatious, a tiptoe, caution in every syllable, in every beat. “After I showed you the Peggy Carter exhibit, I mean.”

Steve sits up at that, or at least, sits up as high as he can, without shifting bumping into something. Bucky has his lower lip between his teeth, and for a second, Steve stumbles off the path of their conversation, too distracted by the way Bucky looks, worrying his lip like that.

“I—uh,” Steve says, taking a deep breath. Taking a moment, however brief, to find his way back. “I was fine, yeah.”

Bucky doesn’t look convinced. “Steve, I’m—I’ve been thinking about whether I made the right call ever since I offered to show you there, and I’m sorry for it. It was inappropriate. You don’t gotta spare my feelings, you know.”

“Buck,” Steve says, genuinely, biting back the urge to reach across the table and tuck a stand of hair behind Bucky’s ear. “It was fine. Look, it’s—it’s hard, yeah, seeing how much I missed, how much I could’ve been part of. Seeing that Peggy moved on after me. But I _needed_ to see it. As much as it hurts, it gets easier each time, knowing that everyone moved on. Because if everyone else moved on, then so can I. Yeah, it’s something that’s gonna take time—hell, you should’ve seen me when I got to the Peggy part of the big Smithsonian exhibit—but it—I _need_ to see these things. So it was—I was, yeah. I was fine.”

Bucky doesn’t look convinced. Worse, he looks like he’s blaming himself for Steve’s hurt, for the internal ordeal that was going through the Carter exhibit. And Steve can’t have that. He can’t have Bucky feeling guilty, not for Steve’s trauma.

“Hey,” Steve says, leaning in close, taking care not to bury himself elbows-deep in his pasta. “Trust me, okay? I needed to be there. And I don’t regret you taking me. I would’ve never gone to that part of the library if it weren’t for you. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, still sounding a little deflated. Still not sounding completely absolved.

“Buck, really. It’s okay,” Steve says, “Besides, putting the fact that’s Peggy aside, I liked seeing a part of the library I don’t pay attention to. I like when you show me more of the things you do. That’s part of why I like going to the library.”

This seems to bring back that light, that spark. “Really?”

Steve nods. “Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Buck. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and his voice is soft, again, “Yeah, I guess so.”

They don’t speak for a while after that, instead, working on their food. Bucky cleans his plate quickly, ravenously—or, as ravenous as one can, while still maintaining proper table manners. He refuses, of course, when Steve offers some of his pasta, but it doesn’t stop Steve from worrying over him like he’s his mother. It’s a moment more of silence between them, of Bucky watching Steve and taking small sips of water when Steve finally breaks the silence. 

“Can I ask _you_ something?” he asks, “Not as personal. As yours, I mean.”

Bucky shrugs, looking far more relaxed than earlier. “Sure.”

“When you were doing what you did, going into librarian school, did you ever think you’d end up having to lead Captain America through an exhibit about his ex—” Steve starts, stopping short of calling Peggy his _girlfriend._ No, they were never that. The war wasn’t made for _boyfriends and girlfriends,_ with their egg creams with two straws, and their date-night strolls along the pier. And she wasn’t his _lover._ She could hardly be reduced to that. She could hardly be reduced to _anything,_ in the grand scheme of his life—Peggy wasn’t Steve’s girlfriend, or lover, or fiancée. She was _Peggy,_ and that was that. But Steve settles on something, regardless, realizing that Bucky is expecting for him to continue, to add a cap to the end of his sentence, instead of letting it spool out, awkwardly, into oblivion. “—his ex-gal?”

“No, no, I can’t say that I did,” Bucky answers, with a laugh, “I mean, not that I’m complaining. I’m glad I was able to meet you. But they don’t exactly have a _Living Legends and You_ class, even at NYU.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, leaning back in his seat. “You went to NYU? _Shit._ ”

“Yeah, well, I’m still paying the bills for it, and probably will be for a _long_ time,” Bucky says with a smile and a lopsided shrug, lighthearted, but self-depreciating, nonetheless.

“I guess what you’re saying is, don’t go back to school?” Steve asks, jokingly.

“I’m not saying _that._ Just—keep an eye on those tuition costs,” Bucky replies, “Besides, _you?_ I’m sure any university would _pay_ you to enroll as one of their students.”

“Kinda defeats the challenge of going to school if they’re just letting me in as a celebrity endorsement,” Steve says, before digging back into his meal. Bucky heaves another little one-shouldered shrug at that, and they fall into another comfortable silence, as Steve finishes his pasta and Bucky watches him eat.

“Can I ask you another question?” Bucky asks eventually, as soon as Steve pushes his plate aside, now completely empty.

Steve smiles at Bucky, his head tilted slightly, so he’s looking up at him through his long, brown eyelashes. He didn’t _mean_ to play coy, but it didn’t hurt if it came across that way. “You don’t have to ask for permission, Buck, but go ahead.”

“What would you go back to school for?” Bucky asks, and of course, Steve answers with art. Journalism, if he truly chose to give up the shield for good one day, and art—illustration, specifically—if he stayed Captain America, just to say that he finally got a degree. Steve, then, asks him his own question, a variation on Bucky’s own, and Bucky answers it in turn.

They continue like that, asking each other questions—always asking permission, even though the laughs and groans and shared smiles—learning more things about each other than they ever could have through texts, than they ever could have through awkward little conversations in the park. Steve learns that Bucky was an English major in undergrad, that he has an awful sweet tooth, and he loves Halloween but hates his birthday. In turn, Steve shares things of his own—not secrets, but not common knowledge. Things like the fact that he doesn’t tan, he _burns,_ even with the serum, but earns little bursts of freckles for the trouble of it. That his favorite dessert is apple cake, and he’s agnostic about apple pie. That his favorite holiday is Thanksgiving, though it used to be Easter, and he listens to far more of the Top 40 Hits than anyone would suspect. It’s this last fact—and Steve offering proof in the form of singing the first verse to the big dance song of the week—that puts Bucky in stitches, his laugh becoming a low wheeze, as he tries to pull together enough composure to get some air.

It wasn’t a date. No more than any of their other times spent alone. Except under any other circumstances, it would be. Except, if Steve was being honest with himself, it _was._  

“Okay, okay. You ask me a question now,” Bucky says, still half-laughing at Steve’s performance of a pop song.

“Well. Hmm,” Steve hums, thinking over something simple, something _fun._ He thinks about the things people usually ask on first dates. He thinks, and considers his question, and asks, even _if_ it’s pushing the boundaries of appropriateness between friends. “First crush. _Real_ crush. None of that _kid you asked to marry you on the schoolyard_ bullshit. I mean puppy love. The real stuff.”

“Oh God,” Bucky laughs, burying his face in his hands, “Are you really asking me this?”

“I mean,” Steve says, quickly, “I can think of another question, if you want.”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s just—” Bucky says, his voice muffled. “You first, you first.”

Even under the dim lights of the restaurant, Steve can see Bucky is blushing _fiercely_. “Jesus Christ, Buck. _Who was it?”_

Bucky takes a deep breath, composing himself. “Okay. Alright. Promise you won’t judge me. Swear it to me, Rogers. You have to swear it to me.”

“I promise, I promise,” Steve says, raising his right hand. _Captain’s Honor._ “On my Ma’s grave.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, as if staring down a precipice. As if preparing to jump, hoping he’ll survive whatever lies next. He only barely meets Steve’s eyes when he finally speaks, when he answers Steve’s question; a question far from appropriate from something that was _not a date._ But when he answers, Steve feels like the only person in the restaurant, in the city, in the _world_. When Bucky finally answers, Steve swears, on his late mother’s grave, that he feels his heart stop in that moment.

“It was you.”

It’s Steve’s turn, this time, to find himself struggling for air.

“Really?” he manages to get out. 

Looking away, Bucky nods. “Yeah. I—uh. I’d just turned thirteen. Just two, three years ago, I still thought girls had cooties, and being into guys was out of the question. I didn’t think I’d _ever_ have a crush on anyone, and it’s not like I hadn’t seen you before. My dad was— _is_ —completely obsessed with the history World War Two, and he’s a huge fan of you.”

Suddenly, a memory resurfaces in sharp relief: Bucky, as an image on a screen, across Brooklyn, when Steve admitted he was _Steve_ , spoken almost like a confession, like a secret: _I dressed up as you. I had a poster of you._ Interest of that intensity, especially as a child, had to come from somewhere.

“But one day, I walk into eighth-grade history class, and we’re learning about the Howling Commandos, and Mister Czernecki puts these pictures up on the projector of you, Steve Rogers, before the serum. And I just—I looked at you, all small and sharp and _real_ , and I had this moment of clarity, this moment where I thought, if I were alive back then, I would want to be with you,” Bucky says, his eyes trained on a water stain in front of him and his voice dropping down low. He should be inaudible, through the restaurant’s din, but as Bucky continues to confess his childhood crush, his rich, familiar voice is all Steve hears. “I just thought—I dunno, that I understood what being in love was when I looked at you.”

Had it been anyone but Bucky—who Steve started falling for before he’d even met him face-to-face—this new knowledge might have been off-putting. But instead, it feels almost like cosmic destiny; like theirs was a relationship—though it wasn’t even that, not really— _generations_ in the making. He’s flattered to be Bucky’s childhood crush. He’s humbled with the knowledge that Bucky trusts Steve enough to confess to something so raw. He’s buzzing with the thought of _what does this mean, what could this mean._

But more than anything, feels a nagging urge in the pit of his stomach to respond; he feels the moral duty not only to say something to Bucky, but to reciprocate. 

“Yasha,” Steve says. “His name was Yasha. He was my first crush, my first _real_ crush.”

Bucky looks up at him suddenly, as if startled.

“He lived two floors below mine. His folks would help out my folks, then my mom and I, once my dad passed. We used to sit out on the stoop, me sketching things, him talking about plants, and the science of plants. It was us, from ages eight to—yeah. About twelve, thirteen.”

“What happened to him?” Bucky asks, his voice quiet, still; barely a whisper.

Steve shrugs. “His dad moved the family out to Chicago, or near it. Times were getting tight, especially for us poor folks, and he had an uncle out there, I think. Guess they just wanted a new start.”

Bucky is silent, though Steve knows, not for lack of caring. And he welcomes that silence. He’s grateful for it. It gives him a chance to breathe.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Bucky says eventually, his voice soft. His hand is on Steve’s. The warmth Bucky’s touch is all-consuming, and Steve is hyperaware of the way that Bucky’s long fingers instinctively curl around his own.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, realizing he sounds far more vulnerable than he’d planned. He shifts, moving his hand to squeeze Bucky’s, just once, just gently, but enough. Looking at Bucky’s face, the way that his expression shifts, ever-slightly, is enough, “It was almost a hundred years ago, now. Plus, I’d all but moved on once I watched a movie or two of Katherine Hepburn.”

“Katherine Hepburn was your first celebrity crush?” Bucky asks, and though the mood has changed, Steve can’t help but notice Bucky didn’t move his hand away. “Somehow, that makes total sense.”

“You think so?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and the way he’s looking at Steve makes Steve’s heart ache in every best way; there’s something indescribably humbling, knowing that even though he’s probably _countless_ people’s celebrity crush, Steve is still the apple of Bucky’s eye.

“Uh—we should go,” Steve says, floating back to their present moment, in the too-crowded, too-hip, too-loud restaurant. “I think the waiter’s been hovering.”

Bucky glances over his shoulder, spotting said antsy waiter. The restaurant is just as tight as it was when they arrived. Free tables, even occupied by Captain America, were at a premium. Understanding, Bucky nods, reaching for his wallet.

“Hey, no,” Steve says, “Lemme pay for this.”

“No,” is all Bucky says, but Steve won’t have that. He makes eye contact with the waiter, and when he’s at the table, Bucky is still trying to pay. 

“Nope, nope,” Steve says, swatting Bucky’s hand out of the way, “I’m the one who asked you out. I’m gonna pay for you.”

“ _Steve,_ ” Bucky whines, as the waiter nods, darting off with Steve’s card. All Steve can do to that is shrug, taking a sip of his water as Bucky looks at him, as they wait for the waiter to come back with the receipt. When it comes, Steve has to maneuver to keep the total hidden from Bucky’s prying eyes. The bill isn’t much—Steve would even describe it as reasonable, really, given the amount of food he eats. And it’s not that he doesn’t think Bucky can’t afford it. It was just the principle of the thing. Just like how the _principle_ of it all compels him to leave a tip that’s more expensive than the meal in spades.

“Ready to go?” Steve asks Bucky, meeting his eyes once he’s done signing a messy version of his signature on the receipt slip. Bucky is still looking at him, eyes intent, as if he’d not blinked in the time that Steve received and signed for his credit card charge. He continues looking at Steve for a moment, intense as always, before nodding, moving to untangle his long legs out and away from their cramped spot. Steve follows, and soon, they’re back out into the night, the air sticky and thick with the promise of rain.  

“Hey,” Bucky says, his hands absentmindedly going to tuck hair behind his ear, not for the first time that night. “Thanks again for going to dinner with me. And thanks for paying. You—I owe you one.”

“Bud, I’ve got more than I know what to do with. It’s really nothing,” Steve laughs. He might not be as rich and flashy as Stark, nor as regal and naturally elegant as Thor, but between the decades’ worth of government backpay and corporate compensation for the use of his likeness, Steve was _comfortable_. And he would use that generously comfortable sum of money he still had—after the bills, after the charities, after what little he splurged to himself—to spoil Bucky _rotten,_ if Bucky would give him the chance to. 

“We should do this again sometime,” Bucky says, running his thumbs over the sleeves of that big, loose cardigan of his. Even lit up by the searing, electric-white lights of the city, he looks soft. _Cuddly._

“I’d like that,” Steve says, feeling like a sap and smiling at Bucky, because from the looks of it, Bucky feels the same. It’s only after a few minutes and a light jostle from a passerby that Steve realizes neither of them has made any effort to leave.  

“Well—“ Bucky starts, awkwardly, “I should get going—“

“Yeah. Yeah. I—uh. I could walk you home. If—uh. If you want,” Steve offers, gently. Bucky looks him over, considering. Chewing on his lower lip in the way that Steve _knew_ was contemplative, but _looked_ playful and coy.

“You know what, why not?” Bucky says eventually, with a smile and a shrug that makes Steve’s heart jump. “I’ll buy you ice cream, or coffee, or something while we’re on our way.”

That mention of _ice cream_ suddenly brings Steve back—to his time with Wanda and Natasha at the park, to the beats of their conversation, to Natasha’s self-care advice. All he can do is laugh at it, shaking his head at the coincidence of it all. “You ever go on an ice cream walk?”

“A _what?”_ Bucky asks, confused, but still looking warm as sunshine, and God, will Steve never be over that bright, perfect smile.

“Had a friend tell me about it,” Steve explains, feeling silly, but in no way, feeling embarrassed or under pressure under Bucky’s gaze. “You buy yourself a cone and you go for a walk. It’s supposedly a great way to relax. Clear your head.”

“So it’s just a _walk_ ,” Bucky says, slowly. He’s watching Steve carefully, as if he’s trying to work out some inside joke. “But with an ice cream.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “An ice cream walk.”

“Gotcha,” Bucky replies, and as he shakes his head, he’s still smiling. “No, I can’t say that I have. You?”

Steve shrugs. “Nope.”

“Well, let’s try it out, then,” Bucky says, as they begin to walk. “Next ice cream place we see, I’ll buy us cones. And don’t try to fight me on this one. You bought me dinner, least I could do is buy you a cone.”

“Alright,” Steve says, with a little laugh, “I’m okay with that.”

“Good,” Bucky says, with a nod, looking determined-- _sparkling,_ even. “Good.”

\---

They make their way through Brooklyn, walking close, their hands almost touching, but not _quite._ Steve feels overconfident and exuberant. It was like he’d completely defeated his anxiety. He was making real ballsy moves, and it hadn’t got the best of him _once_ over the course of the evening.

Maybe he’d figured out a way to beat the whole _debilitating anxiety over interpersonal relationships_ after all.

It’s late enough that by the time Bucky and Steve pass by an ice cream place, the staff is getting ready to close. Polite as they are, instead, they stop into the bodega near Bucky’s apartment, grabbing a couple sundae cones out of the cooler by the register. They pass in and out quickly, but not before Bucky stops to pet the big, lazy gray bodega cat peering up at them from the warm patch next to the ice cream cooler.

“His name’s Max. WNYC interviewed him last year,” Bucky says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, scratching Max behind the ears one last time before he makes his way to go, “He’s pretty cool.”

Steve has to bite back the urge to meet that with a, _You’re pretty cool._ Instead, he just holds the door open for Bucky in true _first date_ fashion, waving a little goodbye to the cat as the door swings closed.

Bucky is digging into his sundae cone almost the moment they’re out of the bodega. Steve peels the paper wrapper from his, biting into the peanut-topped chocolate shell with gusto. As they continue through Brooklyn together, Steve following Bucky’s lead down familiar streets, through vaguely familiar neighborhoods, Steve completely forgets his anxiety. Everything feels lighter, simplified; that shared walk, with their bodega sundae cones, feels like his entire world. He was going to have to thank Natasha—ice cream walks really _did_ work.

“Hey,” Steve says. Bucky looks up, already down to the last kernel of his cone. Steve pulls his phone out with his free hand, pulling up the front-facing camera. “Not to be that guy, but—you wanna—?”

Bucky shakes his head, loose strands _swooshing_ as he does. “Yeah, sure. Just don’t throw this up on the internet. I don’t wanna get mobbed by TMZ. I like my boring, quiet life the way it is.”

“I like your quiet life, too, so you don’t gotta worry about that,” Steve says, and he snaps a picture of the both of them. It’s a nice picture, the two of them smiling, with half-finished ice cream cones in their hands—one could forget, looking at that picture, that Steve was pushing a century.

“Great,” Bucky says, as soon as they’re done, and he pops the final bit of the cone into his mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve says, because it _is_ great, finally having a picture of the two of them together, finally having a picture of Bucky at all. Beyond preserving that night digitally, beyond preserving it in a format outside of Steve’s supersoldier memory, there was something exciting about having a picture of them together. There was something solid about it, something _real._  

They walk in silence for hardly two blocks more as Steve finishes up his ice cream. It’s late, and even with enhanced stamina on top of his baseline staying power, Steve can already feel his energy levels dropping. Moving forward with a boy as incredible as Bucky, all while fighting off one’s anxiety and taking many, many first steps would do that to a person, enhanced or not.

“Well,” Bucky says, stopping in front of a nondescript red brick walk-up. “This is me.”

“Oh,” Steve says, “Well. Uh—great.”

“I—“ Bucky starts. There’s something he wants to say, something that lingers on his tongue, but he chooses not to share it with Steve. “Thanks for taking me to dinner, Steve.”

“Hey, yeah. It’s no problem. Anything for—” Steve starts, the words _my best guy,_ on the tip of his tongue, and that’s when it happens. That’s when the confluence of Steve’s flagging energy and his insidious intrusive thoughts and his incredible _need_ to strive for perfection with Bucky all combine to create something messy; that’s when, like a trip wire, Steve’s anxiety is triggered, working lightning-fast and with a vengeance. 

A spiky, insidious thorn of fear lodges itself in Steve’s throat, as a familiar, cynical voice in the back of his head screaming that he’s going _much too fast,_ that he’s shown his cards too soon, that he’s forgotten Bucky’s a civilian and likes his life quiet and simple and uncomplicated, that their lives aren’t compatible beyond what they have, that this—all of it— _cannot end well and will not end well. He wants it. But maybe all of this so far—was nothing but trouble._ It tears a hurricane through Steve’s mind at a million miles a minute, battering what tenuous confidence he’d built up, and he stumbles, falling down, down, down, two steps forward, one step back. And all the progress he made working up the courage to admit to Bucky how he felt—how he _really_ felt—falls with him. The house they built of secrets and sincerity was not made of cards, but it still weathers significant damage under the gusts of Steve’s anxieties, all manifest when Steve swallows hard and lets the words tumble, like a mudslide, like an avalanche:

“—uh. Yeah. Anything for a friend.”

And standing there in front of him, Bucky—beautiful, funny, _incredible_ Bucky—looks crushed. As if he’d been trapped under a mountain’s worth of snow.  

He watches Steve, and Steve watches _him_ —carefully, ever-so-carefully—in return. There’s the most miniscule, almost-unnoticeable change in expression on those perfect features. Bucky, looking up at Steve, with those big, expressive, blue eyes, looks unsure. Unsure, and even a little hurt. That hurt, that visible ache, more than anything, is what Steve sees. And that, more than anything, hurts him, too.

“I, uh—I should—” Bucky starts, gesturing vaguely to the front entrance. His voice quiet. Tight. “Yeah.”

“Right, right,” Steve says—immediately regretting that he’d said anything. “I don’t wanna keep you. G’night, Buck.”

Bucky nods, pausing briefly, as if waiting. Maybe, Steve thinks, with a rush, this entire night, Bucky was _waiting._ After a second, he sighs, and puts on a smile, one that hardly compares to any of the dozen smiles they’d shared over the course of their night. “Yeah. Alright. Good night, Steve.”  

Steve nods, and as he watches Bucky leave him, Steve becomes fully aware of how _deeply_ he’d fucked up. He wants to take it back. He recognizes his own irrationality, his own stumbling, and he _wishes_ he could harness whatever energies Wanda used to turn it all back. But he can’t. He made his mistake. No matter how much or how many times he would like to, he could never go back.

Somehow, in the aftermath of his panic, in the wake of all he’s done, Steve wills himself away from Bucky’s building, and before he knows it, he’s far away from Bucky, deep in New York City’s underground, barreling through the city at seventeen miles an hour; barreling towards the big, empty apartment he called home.

Yet, fast as he might be going, fast as the city might be rushing by him, Steve—with his phone sitting heavy and cold in his hands—feels like time has slowed. Once more, Steve feels like the world has frozen; the only proof that it hasn’t is the familiar, blinking cursor, flashing at him accusingly at the edge of an unsent text:  

> ME [DRAFT]: What are we? What do you want us to be?

The voice of the MTA—mocking in its amicability—announces his stop. And Steve—the stumbling, broken, anxious, unsure humanity behind the mask, behind _Captain America—_ deletes his text immediately. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^)
> 
> anyway, some notes:
> 
> \- hi sorry for the delay i am literally bowing under the immense weight of grad work like an over-shelved ikea bookshelf but on the bright side that new budget bill might make it so i have to drop out and move back home since if i were taxed for my full tuition at my wages i would no longer be able to afford living and working here ha ha ha i lied there is no bright side
> 
> \- that said, parts of this chapter were super-rushed, so i apologize for that -- i might end up editing them for clarity and for flow, but that's going to be at a time when i'm not as crushed by work. 
> 
> \- soundtrack for the second half of this chapter is [father john misty’s “holy shit,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9BAlBFv9fE) which I stole part of the chapter description from (the other part from another branch of science that’s i'm totally obsessed with). i imagine it will be thematically relevant to other chapters in the future, as it’s also relevant to previous chapters, but how it’s relevant, i won’t say. spoilers, etc.
> 
> \- steve’s outfit in this chapter is [this one, worn by actual dream hunk chris evans](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/post/165480479307/dailymarvelkings-sebastian-stan-chris-evans). also: expect a lot more henleys in this fic.
> 
> \- kamala's description of science/math teacher bucky is a reference to [“they’re gonna send us to prison for jerks” by napricot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10291376), (which, in itself, is a reference to [sebastian stan’s terrible i, tonya moustache](https://www.instagram.com/p/BQBIGpCANpy/)). It’s one of my favorite stevebucky fics out there. i put myself on a cap!steve/modern!bucky fic moratorium when i started writing this, but that fic was too good for me to pass up (and kind of skirts by as not under the moratorium, anyway). 
> 
> \- max isn’t an actual cat from an actual bodega, but WNYC really _does_ have a feature called [bodega cats in their own words](http://www.wnyc.org/series/bodega-cats-their-own-words/) and it’s pretty much the greatest thing i've ever seen. i spent an evening i should have been doing grad work watching the entire series thus far. 
> 
> anyway, that's it for now. i promise that next time's update will be less miserable.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a cold, cold war.
> 
> or: steve rogers and the bear.

Rain comes down in sheets the next day, leaving scores of broken umbrellas littering the sidewalks, and dredging up all of the city’s dried-up sludge like some sort of holy reckoning, or something just short of it.

Steve goes on a run, anyway.

He runs until he’s soaked to the skin. He runs until his bones begin to ache. He runs until even his supersoldier metabolism can’t keep up, and he begins to get the chills.

It doesn’t help. He still feels anxiety and guilt and an almost _pitiful_ degree of self-loathing chewing at his insides, less like a dog with a bone and more like a fox trapped in a snare, ready and willing to gnaw its own limb off.

So of course, it surprises him when, late into the afternoon, on his way home, Steve takes out his phone to see, among other notifications, a text from Bucky.

> BUCKY [4:22 PM]: Hope you’re staying dry out there, pal

Steve tries so, so very hard not to pore over it. He wishes that he could just take it as a sign that Bucky isn’t breaking off their tenuous relationship then and there—that even after Steve’s dumb stunt that he’d pulled back at their restaurant, he was still willing to _talk_ to the guy.

But Steve, of course, is Steve. He couldn’t stop himself from confronting bullies when he was sickly, frail, and ninety pounds soaking wet. To think he could ever stop himself from running head-first into a losing battle—this time, with his own stormy mental wellbeing—was out of the question.

Ducked into his favorite spot and still half-soaked, even after changing out of his running clothes, Steve stares at the text on his screen—at those seven words, so damning and wonderful and _indiscernible_ all at once. Cradling a mug of instant coffee against his chest, he struggles, with all the desperation of a man at a world’s end, to understand; to divine what Bucky is trying to _say without saying_. And more importantly, perhaps, _most_ importantly, to respond in kind. It takes Steve almost an hour to come up with a response, and all the willpower in the world and more not to run over the library, still dressed in his sweats, slippers, and paint-stained shirt, there and then.

> ME [4:42 PM]: You too, Buck.

Then, because he can’t help himself, he follows up—

> ME [4:46 PM]: Want me to order you a cab? On me.

Bucky doesn’t answer. Steve paces his apartment for an hour, reminding himself—sometimes verbally, sometimes not—that he needs to try not to panic. 

> BUCKY [5:59 PM]: You know what
> 
> BUCKY [5:59 PM]: Yeah, that’d actually be really helpful
> 
> BUCKY [6:01 PM]: Thanks

And it’s not an _I forgive you,_ from Bucky _._ It’s not even an _I’m sorry,_ on Steve’s end. Not by any means. But it’s _something._ It’s a start. And Steve, in spite of the massive weight of having fucked up the _one good thing they had_ hanging heavy around his neck, replies with something akin to _hope._  

> ME [6:01 PM]: Any time, Buck.
> 
> ME [6:01 PM]: :)

It continues to rain in New York City. Steve continues through the day with a constant, ever-distracting ache, like a scab that just won’t heal. But after hearing from Bucky again, after helping him get home safe, Steve, in spite of everything, feels _warm._  

**\---**

After that text, Steve curls up on his couch, wrapped up tightly in a comforter he drags out from his bedroom, and falls asleep to a friendly, familiar Canadian-accented drone. He sleeps restlessly, still feeling far too chilly after his run in the rain.

He sleeps for hours after his alarm goes off, hours after he ignores a small flurry of Natasha’s texts. It’s only when his phone starts ringing, the passive-aggressively cheery tone grating on his eardrums, that Steve pulls himself awake, not even looking at the screen before he answers the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” comes Bucky’s voice, from the end, and Steve, out of surprise, nearly falls off his damn couch.

“Oh—hi. Hi, Buck,” Steve says, suddenly, _violently_ awake. He rights himself, trying his hardest to sound casual, normal. Trying his hardest, above all, to keep to himself the fact that hearing Bucky’s voice again after their awkward, stilted absence was like seeing light again after a long, painful trek through the dark. “What’s—uh—what’s up?”

“Just making a courtesy call to remind you that you’ve got three books out that are now a week overdue,” Bucky says, sounding standard. Professional. The bubble of joy that was rising in Steve’s chest deflates, and for a moment, before he realizes that Bucky is still on the other line, Steve wants to let out the smallest, most miserable little cry he can muster. But he doesn’t. He just swallows his sadness, puts on an equally friendly, level-sounding tone, and moves forward.

“Oh—shit,” he says, running his free hand over his face, “Yeah. I’ll—uh. I can return those soon, I—uh. I’ll come in and return those today.”

Bucky hums. “Alright. Sounds great.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m—” Steve says, his mouth unable to form around the word _sorry,_ lest he invite something over the phone that wouldn’t be able to handle. “I—Shit, Buck. I totally forgot.”

There’s a half-second of silence that Steve takes as a shrug. “Happens all the time.”

Another silence, entirely still, this time. After what feels like a charged, unresolved _forever,_ Bucky sighs, the _huff_ of his breath in Steve’s ear feeling intimate, roiling up the very feelings in Steve that got them in that stilted position in the first place.  

“Steve, I—”

“Yeah? What is it, Buck?”

Bucky is silent for a moment once more, and Steve can picture him, chewing his lower lip, trying to pull together his words. Steve’s heart aches, missing that little quirk so _much._ As if he feels the same way, Bucky, on the other end of the line, sighs. “You know what? It’s not that important.”

“Hey,” Steve says, softly, “It’s okay. Tell me.”

“I—” Bucky starts. He seems to want to say something, but he’s searching for his words. Steve wants to hold his hand. It might have only been a few days, but he _misses_ that boy, desperately. Eventually, after what feels like hours, Bucky settles on something. “I—thanks for calling me the cab the other day.”

“Hey, yeah,” Steve says, and this is the time he would confess to Bucky, if they were a week or so back along the line, if Steve hadn’t danced around his feelings for Bucky, and so suddenly pulled back. “Yeah. Anytime, anything. I—uh. Don’t—don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Mm. Yeah. Alright, yeah,” Bucky says, though he _clearly_ has something else in mind, something he’s keeping from Steve, settled just behind his teeth.

Steve waits, but Bucky never budges, so he just continues, clearly repressing yet another sigh: “I—uh, I’ll see you in a few?”

“Yeah,” is all Bucky says. “Uh, yeah, I’ll—uh. I’ll see you in a few.”

**\---**

With a backpack stuffed with books, a paper bag full of still-warm pastries, and a head filled with a thousand different thoughts in conflict, Steve stands in front of the Martinelli, staring at it with all the fatalistic conviction of a fourteen-year-old kid about to storm Normandy. His head hurts, and it isn’t until he sighs, slow and measured and through the mouth, that he realizes that, ever since he stepped out of his apartment, he’s been clenching his jaw.

He still doesn’t know what he’ll say to Bucky about that night. He still doesn’t know if he’ll bring it up at all.

Hell, he doesn’t even know if _Bucky_ wants to bring it up.

All he knows is that he _has_ to see Bucky. He can’t—unlike when he’d fucked up before—turn around and walk away. Not without seeing Bucky, at the very least.

And so he pushes through—into the Martinelli, into the library—hoping that the buzzing in his brain and the trembling in his hands will stay at bay, if only for a moment; if only for _Bucky._  

“Hey,” Steve says the second he’s at the circulation desk, and in spite of everything, his shoulders sag, the tension ebbing, leaving his body through his limbs, the second he sees Bucky; Bucky, with that mesmerizing mouth and those unreadable, impossibly-blue eyes.

“Hey,” Bucky says, not smiling, but not looking overly hostile, either.

“Brought you something,” Steve says, unloading the books onto the counter. Then, he unloads the bag of pastries—two cheese danishes and an almond croissant, warm enough to still fill the space between them with a sweet-delicious bakery scent. “Two somethings, actually.”

And that earns him a smile. It’s small, soft, and _nothing_ compared to the other smiles Steve had earned before, but it’s something. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Steve says and looks away, trying to ignore the way his eyes begin to sting and burn. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to will those welling tears down. He’s not mad at Bucky; Steve’s absolutely enchanted by him, not that it’s a surprise. But the surge of guilt and excitement and sheer _joy_ that is being _near_ Bucky threatens to make him a blubbering, pathetic mess. Or at least, more of a blubbering, pathetic mess than he already was. So he wills it down. For a terse moment, he wills it down, standing there at the circulation desk with Bucky, as he had, so many times before.

“I, uh—” Bucky starts, his voice low, at the same time that Steve opens his mouth, wordlessly.

“Yeah?”

“No, I—” Bucky starts. He pauses, then shakes his head. “You go.”

“It’s just—“ Steve says, flicking his gaze away from Bucky’s, just for a moment. Just long enough that he needed to be able to say it, without losing the delicate composure that he had. “I—uh. I missed seeing you yesterday.”

Bucky nods. As he speaks, he doesn’t make eye contact, either. “Yeah. Yeah, I did, too.”

It’s still not an apology. It’s not even an admission, of anything. And as such, it’s not an acceptance of the not-apology that it is. But it was a start. As double-edged and painful as it was, it was a start.

“Hey,” Bucky says eventually, almost like he’s clearing his throat. “I’ve gotta—”

“Oh—oh, right,” Steve says, almost sheepish. “I don’t wanna—yeah.”

“I’ll see you—” Bucky starts, before he pauses, to seemingly, carefully, choose his words. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Steve says, with a nod. “Definitely. Yeah.”

“Alright, uh—well. I’ll—uh. I’ll see you soon.”

Steve nods. He feels like he can’t stop nodding. In spite of the potentially-explosive energy they both verbally tiptoe around, Steve finds it easy, relieving, even, to smile at Bucky, as he caps off their long, drawn-out goodbye. “Later, Buck. You—uh. You have a good night, alright?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and just like Steve, he returns the smile, seemingly, in spite of himself.  “Yeah, Steve. You, too.”

**\---**

They continue to see each other after that meeting, all the while dancing around the subject of _that night_ , of that half-swallowed, aborted attempt at something _more._ They continue to see each other, if only because Steve couldn’t imagine a reality where they would just _stop._ Having Bucky in his life was just the norm; he gravitated towards Bucky, and Bucky gravitated towards him, like two celestial bodies caught in each other’s orbit. They were twin planets; twin closed-off, emotionally-dysfunctional planets.

Neither of them brings it up. Not in the texts that Bucky sends him in the morning, not in their brief conversations in the library, not even in the prickly silences between them as they settle on _their_ bench in Avengers Park. Sometimes, Steve thinks that it’s all in his head, that Bucky’s feelings for him are platonic, at best, that the almost-romantic angst is all a one-sided war was just that: a one-sided, pointless conflict. But that doesn't feel like the truth. Not when he remembers the look on Bucky's face that night. It doesn't feel like the truth, but Steve can never be so sure, not now, not when Bucky has, almost like with a flip of a switch, become so hard to read. 

And Steve _hates_ it. He hates how he can’t tell for _sure_ how Bucky is doing. He hates how his traitorous anxiety kills his bravery, in the very moments he needs that foolhardy, famous bravery the most. He hates how he _knows_ he fucked up. But more than anything in the whole situation, Steve hates _himself._

Consequently, Steve stews in self-flagellation for a little over a week before he has to put on a brave face for anyone _other_ than Bucky. After a week’s worth of pretending _everything was fine until nothing was fine_ with Bucky, Steve had to do it _again,_ this time, for a long-planned-out dinner date with his favorite redhead.  

Steve arrives at Natasha’s doorstep, a bottle of corner shop wine in hand. He takes a deep breath, practicing his _I’m okay, things are okay, did you see the game the other day?_ face before he rings the doorbell, pulling it on the _second_ his supersoldier hearing picks up the soft pad of six feet—two human, four not—on their approach.  

“Oh, hey. You showed,” Natasha teases, letting Steve into her apartment. Liho, at her feet, chirps at him in welcome. He hands Natasha the wine, and folds down to a crouch to pet Liho. “Good to see you haven’t been captured or something.”

Steve looks up at her and blinks. Liho, looking up at Steve, does the same.

“Why would I be captured?” he asks, pulling himself back up to full height. The _fake-bemused_ tone he’s put on is a convincing one, but something in the pit of his stomach has already begun to lurch.  

Natasha shrugs, casually, _except not_. “You’re usually good at texting back, but you’ve been pretty hard to get a hold of lately.”

“Just busy, s’all,” Steve lies, as he makes his way over to the couch. It’s not a smart move, lying to a superspy’s face like that, but the alternative was being _honest_ with her, and he was _not_ about to do that, not when he knew that he had just over a week’s worth of _emotions_ dammed up.

She pads over to stand in front of Steve, before crouching to meet him at eye-level.

“Okay. Spill. What’s up?” she asks. The tone of her voice hasn’t shifted since she opened the door, but somehow, she sounds _deathly_ serious. Not that she could intimidate him into a confession. Steve’s stared death in the face before.  

“Nothing’s _up_ ,” Steve says, flashing a humorless smile. A typical defense mechanism— _bare your teeth._ “It’s just—I’m, you know, ‘m tired. Mission-planning and everything. That’s all.”

She eyes him, carefully, like she’s watching a target, like he’s her mark, before she speaks again. “You’re bottling things up again. I can _see_ you’re hurting, Steve.”

“I’m not—” Steve laughs, and he’s almost starting to feel _offended._ “I’m not _bottling things up_. I’m fine. Everything is _fine._ I’m not bottling anything up, I’m not isolating myself, I’m just—I’m busy. That’s all.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything to that. She looks like she wants to. In a rare move towards vulnerability, Nat lets her poker face slip, if only for a moment, as she looks at Steve, looking concerned and hurt and angry, all at once—before walking away, grabbing a brown and fuzzy _something,_ and handing it, almost aggressively, to Steve.

“What do you want me to do with this?” Steve asks, looking up at Nat, as he gingerly takes the plush _thing_ from her hands.  

“His name is _Cheburashka,_ Rogers,” she says, not an ounce of irony in her voice. “Show some respect.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “What do you want me to do with—uh— _Chereb—Chaire—_ “

“ _Cheburashka,”_ she corrects, with all the patience of someone who’s used to having their language butchered by even the most well-meaning of people. Where did the thing _come from?_ Was it Natasha’s? It had to be—but in that case, where did she pull it out from? Did she conjure it from some sort of spell made up of post-Soviet kitsch and the _concept_ of childhood memories? Steve looks to the little monkey-infant-bear in his lap, as if for answers. It looks up at him with that same, big-eyed blank stare, as if in sympathy.

“Fine. _Cheburashka,_ ” Steve repeats, the word feeling more familiar to him, after hearing it repeated a few more times. "What do you want me to do with him?”

“Tell me what’s going on with him.”

“Are you serious?” Steve asks, equal parts amused and insulted. He wasn’t a _child._ And he wouldn’t be talked down like one. Just as he’s about to vocalize that very sentiment, Nat pipes up, her eyes trained on Steve.

“Try it. Works better than you’d think,” she says. She’s not calculating about it, not cold, but her focus intense, nonetheless. Steve realizes that it’s a manifestation of concern; he realizes, after _feeling_ his distance, his absences, after seeing him carrying _this_ weight, this must be her breaking point.

Steve, as if breaking, too, sighs.

“Alright,” he says, “Alright. Fine.”

There’s an awkward silence as Steve holds the plush doll in his hands. He stares at it, trying to work up the strength to _actually_ talk about everything—about his mistakes, about his feelings, about Bucky. Cheburashka, weird as it is, looks up at Steve, its plastic, painted-on face gentle. Encouraging. _It’s okay,_ that simple red smile and understanding little eyebrows seem to be saying. _Take it easy. Being vulnerable takes bravery. And right now, you’re being very, very brave, Steve._

After a long, patient, _awkward_ moment of silence, Steve sighs, and, carefully, tentatively, begins to speak.

“So—uh— _Cheburashka._ He—uh. He has a friend—uh. _Bear._ That’s—that’s his friend’s name,” Steve says, somehow feeling overwhelmed and like a _damn fool,_ simultaneously. “Cheburashka really likes Bear. He likes Bear a lot.”

Vocalizing these things is hard. It’s hard, and embarrassing, and too much, all at once. But once Steve starts, everything, _everything,_ comes _pouring out._  

“But Cheburashka’s got a goddamn century’s worth of baggage banging around in that big, dumb skull of his, and it seems like any time he gets close to having a single good thing in his life, a single thing that isn’t kicking or punching or stepping into a role that’s _goddamn exhausting,_ he’s gotta sabotage it. He doesn’t even try. It just _happens,_ even after he tells himself this is it, this is gonna be the day, I’m gonna step up and do the right thing. He just—he’s gotta ruin every good thing he’s got, because—because—“

She nods, her movement less a push, and more a gentle nudge forward—a _go on,_ in a silent tone that doesn’t force a reply, more than it works to remind Steve that’s he’s safe, he’s grounded, he’s among friends.  

Steve sighs. He feels exhausted. He feels lost. He feels like the _biggest idiot in all of Brooklyn._ But the words, as if on their own, continue to _spill_ out, as if from an exit wound.

“I dunno. Maybe because deep down, even after the Depression, even after the war, even after seventy years under the ice, he still doesn’t think he’s gonna get a future with anyone. Not one worth the pain it’s gonna cause, anyway,” Steve says, with a sigh. “Maybe—maybe deep down, there’s still a kid with a chip on his shoulder and blood on his face who’s convinced that he’s gonna fuck it up, like he always does. And maybe because of all that he thinks—he’s convinced—that he doesn’t deserve nice things.”

“And Bear is one of those nice things in Cheburashka’s life that he doesn’t think he deserves?” Natasha asks, her voice earnest, though low, as she breaks her silence—as she _speaks,_ for the first time since she set the terms of their impromptu therapy session.

“Bear is the _best_ thing, Best thing since—since, you know,” Steve says, swallowing. “I—uh. Since. You know.”

She hums. She _does_ know. She _does._

There are tears, suddenly, fogging up Steve’s vision. He blinks, quickly, as if that would will them away.  

“Sorry,” Steve says, somehow, feeling even _more_ guilty.

Natasha, now perched on the back of the couch, in the way Sam would chide her for, had he been there, hums. She could never be mistaken for a hugger. She wasn’t even a _toucher._ Natasha valued her personal bubble and all the shifting boundaries that she drew like they were worth her weight in gold. But her bony hand on his shoulder, and her friendly presence at his back feels just as solid as any _real_ hug would be.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs, squeezing Cheburashka’s soft belly. It’s become a comfort. “And, I—uh. Thank you. I—I’m not—good at this.”

“That’s _been_ clear. You’re about as emotionally backed up as my GI system gets whenever Clint takes me to get Taco Bell,” Natasha says, deadpan. Steve, in spite of himself, lets out a little sigh of a laugh.

“ _Gross,_ ” Steve he groans, sniffling a little bit.

“I know, I had to do something. Can’t have us getting too _chummy,_ you know,” she says, her mouth quirked in a little half-smile.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Nat,” Steve half-jokes, his chest feeling lighter, as his sinuses feel congested and heavy, in the way that crying does. She slugs him on the shoulder, gently, and hops off the couch, gently padding her way to the kitchen.

“I didn’t know if you would show. So I didn’t cook,” she says, changing the subject, suddenly. He knows it's a lie, for reasons including, but not limited to, the fact that Natasha can't cook to save her life. But it’s a welcome shift. Steve needs time to let the ache clear out of his chest. He turns to watch her, uncorking the bottle and pouring some wine out for them both. Liho jumps up on the couch and aggressively headbutts Steve’s arm, only stopping when Steve scratches that sensitive spot behind his ears. “Let’s order something. Unless you have any objections, I’m getting Ethiopian food.”

“Were you going to give me a choice?” Steve asks, as she makes her way back over, handing him his glass.

“Nope,” she says, perching at the other corner of the couch, “I’m getting the spicy chicken stew. What about you?”

“I’ll have the same thing,” Steve says, and Natasha nods.

“Order you two?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, suddenly feeling overwhelmed at the knowledge that he _has people_ who _care about him,_ who know him well enough to know how much he needs to eat, to know when they need to force him to talk, to know him, _period._  “Yeah, two.”

She orders their food, and it arrives quickly. They don’t continue talking about Steve’s problems in the meantime. Instead, they talk about other things—about work things, about friend things, about New York things. When they dig into their dinners, their conversation slows, but barely. It’s when he digs into his dinner that Steve realizes that, over the week, he’d been eating like he was _during_ the Depression, eating nothing but whatever bland, easy-to-make foods he could muster the energy to. It’s another thing that makes him ache, another thing that makes him have to fight back tears when he realizes how _lucky_ he is to have his people.

Nat only finishes half of her spicy chicken stew before she decides she’s done, but she finishes around the same time that Steve does. As she wraps her leftovers up in aluminum foil, Steve grabs the wine glasses and begins to wash up, helping her clean up what little mess they left.  

“You know,” she starts, as Steve dries off her wine glasses, wiping them down with a dish towel until they _shine._ “You have to talk to him.”

Steve heaves a heavy sigh. He sets the glasses down on the counter, and hangs the towel carefully in its place. As he speaks, his shoulders sag, as if on their own, but he nods at her, regardless. “I know.”

“ _Do you?_ ” she asks, somewhere between her regular deadpan teasing and that absolute seriousness that she showed earlier in the night. Steve nods.  

“I do.”

“Okay,” she says, “Good.”

A silence. A beat. It functions like punctuation—a period, indicating that this is the end of their night. Steve stretches, then moves, making his way out of Natasha’s kitchen, readying himself to go back into the world. 

“Well—I should get going,” Steve says, toeing his shoes back on, feeling worn-out, but well-fed and cared for. “Take care, Natasha.”

She nods, escorting him to her door, scooping up Liho in the process. He mewls in protest, but doesn't squirm or move when she kisses his little head. “Start answering your texts again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, “Oh, and Nat? Thank you.”

She doesn’t say _you’re welcome._ Natasha had a complicated relationship with pleasantries, and an even more complicated relationship with genuine, open kindnesses being directed her way. So she doesn’t say _you’re welcome._

“Yeah, sure,” is what she says instead, her voice gentle as it could ever be. She smiles, and for Natasha, it’s _soft._ “New get the fuck out of my house, Rogers.”

Steve huffs out a little laugh as he makes his leave, knowing that it’s as heartfelt a goodbye as Natasha can ever manage to do. And that was fine by him.  

**\---**

Steve recounts everything to his therapist late that next day. After being called out for letting things spiral for far too long, Steve makes the call, early in the morning, setting up an emergency appointment for that afternoon.

She tells him all the things that he’d expected, things that, even before the previous night’s intervention, Steve already _knew._ But talking about it—about how much he loved Bucky, about how afraid he was to tell Bucky, about how much he knew he _hurt_ Bucky—was something he needed far, far more of. And being _pushed,_ even more than he was the night before, to confront his problems, his anxieties, the way that he’s been irresponsible, the way that he’s _hurt people_ —is enough to move Steve to change himself.

Doctor Kaplan wants Steve to structure himself, to channel his anxious, analytical, overthinking tendencies to make things better. And so, he does. Steve, as he has done so many times before, makes a plan.

With that plan, talking over his plan with Doctor Kaplan, Steve thinks he’s ready. He’s got an apology and an admission and a timetable worked out. He even has a _speech—_ an honest-to-God, point-by-point _speech_ —in the works. Steve, with a little push, was going to plan his way into an apology, and he was going to make it _perfect._ He was going to, point by point, do things right, for the first time.

Too bad that a sudden change in plans with the Avengers meant that Steve’s mission parameters with Bucky would need to change, too.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops i accidentally lied, these last two chapters are just all manpain, all the time. oops.
> 
> anyway, greetings loved ones, i'm back for a second (just a second!!) because it's the time of the year when i'm yet again drowning in grad school work, but forcing myself to write a little fic each day is helping me not burn out and also get parts of this fic finished so, uh. hi.
> 
> anyway, chapter notes:
> 
> \- much as is the case with this fic, i ended up writing more than i could ever reasonably put in one chapter, so again, know that i didn't intend to have two chapters of manpain back-to-back, but know that, for real this time, things get kinder in the next update. i really did go into this chapter with the best of intentions.
> 
> \- all the love to [emily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier), my writing partner/editor/best friend, for beta-ing this chapter for me to make sure i didn't make steve too much of an asshole and leading me from the brink of posting potentially problematic trash. (i kid, i kid, but it was BAD before she took a look at it). she's just as familiar with where i want to take this fic as i am (as we developed the idea together) so as this begins expanding and getting bigger, expect to see me thanking her more. not only because she's the best, but because i'm going to be asking for her help more, maybe. 
> 
> \- the bit with cheburashka is inspired by silentwalrus's post about cheburashka and [this](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/post/167741548442/my-russian-colleague-pulled-a-cherebushka-out-of) subsequent exchange. sometimes it's easier to get your feelings out by projecting, especially when you're emotionally-constipated like steve is, as juvenile and as silly as it might feel. that's why we're all in fandom, amrite? 
> 
> \- next up: the come-to-jesus moment, part two. 
> 
> thanks for your patience, support, and love, everyone, and i promise, for real this time, next chapter will have substantially less angst. and, since i reached goal and was able to post this before the day's end: happy 101st birthday to the love of my life and #1 thicc grandpa, james buchanan "bucky" barnes. please don't die in infinity war, dude.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> morning has broken.
> 
> (or: the come-to-jesus moment.)

It wasn't often that they ran into major disasters like this.

As a team, the Avengers were getting better.

Through the radical act of _paying attention,_ they were getting better at finding the roots of anger and chaos and violence and stopping them, like constant gardeners, through prevention, through mitigation, and when they found things early enough, through _care._ They were getting better about moving on from being a superpowered special ops team. They were getting better at acting as _real_ heroes. And because of it, they had been able to avoid being blindsided, being _unprepared,_ countless times.  

This mission did _not_ end up being one of those times.  

**\---**

Brock Rumlow, a.k.a., Crossbones, former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., current agent of Hydra, is, according to all accounts, a jackass. Putting it mildly, Rumlow is an overgrown gym class bully, a self-aggrandizing internet troll, except with the elite-level training expected of only the most special of agents.

But given all that, Brock Rumlow is neither subtle nor clever enough to come up with complex, long-term plans on his own. That’s where the new leader of Hydra, that dangerous unknown, comes in, putting into play plans that twisted and turned and unfurled in ways that even Steve is impressed with, looking back on it.

Impressed, if only in retrospect, and only to the degree that he could be, from the unfortunate position those plans left him in.  

**\---**

Hydra’s strategy was straightforward. Deceptively so. First, over a period of months, sow confusion among low-level members and weak regional leaders. Do this, fully aware that these people would be captured and recount whatever information they had to save themselves. Have these false plans written out in detail, deep enough to seem legitimate.

Second, plant elements of a larger, unified false plot through semi-secure channels, waiting for it to get intercepted and acted upon. Make things easy enough to hack, but not easy enough to rouse suspicions.

Third, while the enemy—while the _Avengers_ —prepare for an attack that was never going to happen, turn around, drop all pretenses, and _strike._

It took Steve and the team embarrassingly long to figure out what was going on. Though everything was obvious in retrospect, by the time they’d pieced all the moving parts together, half the team was storming an abandoned missile launch facility in Colorado, leaving the other half of the team rushing to pivot.

Which was how Steve and Colonel Rhodes found themselves in an abandoned nuclear facility on a tiny island _alarmingly_ close to Brooklyn, with Natasha, Clint, and Sam scrambling to get people on the mainland to safety, _just in case._  

Though the facility had been cleared of the bulk of its materials, whatever team had been in charge of cleanup—be it S.H.I.E.L.D., or the US military, or _whoever_ —failed to remove many of the prototype non-nuclear weapons that were being developed _alongside_ the nuclear ones. Which, Steve thinks, was a stupid piece of planning, given that a nuclear facility was already a target, even _without_ cutting-edge weapons prototypes. Or maybe leaving parts behind was intentional, considering that, up until recently, Hydra had been _running the whole system._

Whichever way it might have come to be, the remnants of Hydra took over the once-abandoned facility with the help of a few remaining double-agents within S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ranks. With Rumlow acting as second-in-command, the Nazi bastards took over the abandoned facility, stole whatever half-abandoned tech they could use, and set it to blow—and take out half the city with it.

Or at least, that was their plan.

As Colonel Rhodes, in his near-indestructible suit, set to disarm the explosives, Steve—less-indestructible, but hard to kill, nonetheless—tried to subdue Rumlow. For a while, all was going well. For a while, Steve—flesh and blood and shield and _spunk_ , going up against a fascist in two-thirds of a reverse-engineered Hulkbuster suit—had him on the ropes.

But the rusted metal platform that Steve was on began to give way under the combined weight of a supersoldier and an elite fighter in a prototype robot exoskeleton. Steve, in spite of his best efforts, in spite of his instincts, faltered. His foot lost its hold, his stance made way for an opening, and Rumlow took that opportunity and ran with it. With the full force of the suit, Rumlow landed a punch, right to Steve’s solar plexus.

And with it, Steve fell. Before he realized what was happening, he fell, farther and faster than any regular human could have survived, hitting something old and long-submerged on the way down. His arm and his head roared with pain, and try as he might, Steve couldn’t get himself above water before his vision, in all-too-familiar fashion, began to sting, blur, then fade away, until everything was black.

In the haze, Steve’s thoughts already had begun to rush. He couldn’t fight it, couldn’t use those stupid deep breathing exercises that his therapist offered for times of crisis. In those very last moments of consciousness, everything came at him at once—fragmented, unrelated memories, plans that would have made the mission smoother, and every single thing he’d meant to tell Bucky; every single thing he’d let go unsaid.

As he felt the gentle, familiar pull of unconsciousness, Steve had one last thought—one last word to the world, before he was entirely gone:  

_Fuck._  

**\---**

The universe would not let Steve die there.

Steve Rogers would live. He would _survive,_ through a combination of the serum and early twentieth-century stubbornness.  

Good news, Colonel Rhodes told him, was that Rumlow was in custody. _Better_ news was that he fell into the harbor, too, not long after Steve. Hearing that, in the Colonels’ friendly cadence, almost made the whole _falling in the harbor_ thing better. The image of Rumlow flailing in that suit wasn’t the one that Steve clung to through the barrage of being poked and prodded and stitched up and examined, but it brought him immense joy, nonetheless.

On a paper-covered gurney in some hidden clinic in the Tower, stripped down to his sweaty, smelly undershirt and his overcomplicated uniform pants, Steve gets checked over by Shiela—his favorite nurse, and _decidedly_ not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent—when he realizes two things.

First, for more reasons than the ambush, all his thoughts are firmly-situated back in Brooklyn, with a very _specific_ Brooklynite in mind.

And second, he really, really needs a shower.

"Well, good news. As far as masked heroes go, you look fairly normal. No signs of concussion, no major bleeding, and no remaining fluid in your lungs. Which is good, considering where you fell from. In addition to the stitches, you’ve got several bruised ribs, and a fractured ulna, and a whole lot of bruising, but you'll live. And considering the fall, the fact that you're not much worse is a true miracle," Sheila says, snapping off her bright blue nitrile gloves, "You're _very_ lucky for the serum. Give it a little bed rest, and you should be fully healed within the week."

"Great," Steve says, moving to get up, "That's great."

Sheila looks concerned. Worse, she looks like she's about to try to stop him.

"Captain Rogers. I said you're lucky, but at least wait for someone to help you out before you leave. Rest means rest, and if those stitches pop, even _you'll_ be looking at a nasty infection."

"I know. I know. And I'm sorry, it's just—"

She sends him a look. As if she _knew_ that he would respond the way he did. And from all the times she’s seen him, she probably did. "It's just that I can't stop you?"

"No, it's not—I mean—it's just—" Steve starts. He sighs a big, painful sigh. "I have somewhere I need to be."

**\---**

It takes some managing, but Steve convinces one of the junior S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to drive him from the tower, out of Manhattan, and into Brooklyn. He hands the baby agent a twenty and a couple caramels for his trouble, and, in that _Captain America_ voice he uses whenever he works with anyone from S.H.I.E.L.D., Steve asks the kid to drive back to the Tower and never speak a word of what they both just did, or where they went. Then, without hesitating for a second, without even looking back to see if the agent sped off, Steve stumbles into the library, feeling overexposed without his shield strapped to his back. He smells like a mix of sterile hospital, dirty water, and charred _something_. As bad as he feels, he looks and _reeks of_ so much worse. It’s not the romantic image of a post-battle reunion that he had in his head at all, and he’s in no way dressed to impress, but at the very least, he's no longer bleeding.

Bucky is sitting at the circulation desk with Dolores, Doreen, and another young woman that Steve doesn’t recognize, along with some library patrons, all their attention turned towards two flatscreen displays. Usually, those screens would cycle through community messages, things about read-ins and canned food drives and guided tours through whatever it was they had on exhibit. But now, the screens are showing the news, the volume turned up louder than what would be appropriate for a library.

The reporter on-screen makes the situation seem much more unstable it was. Steve would have to clear that up at the press conference in a few days. But for now, he had another mission in mind.

“Hey,” Steve says, low, gently, as he walks over to the circulation desk, "Didn't mess anything important, did I?"

Steve will never forget the face Bucky makes when he turns to look at him. It's damn-near heartbreaking.

"Oh my God. Steve," Bucky breathes, sounding exhausted and relieved all at once. It tugs at Steve’s heart, the way that Bucky says his name like that.  

Bucky bolts out of his chair, and before Steve knows it, Bucky has him wrapped in a hug. More so than when he woke up in the Tower, more so than when he was getting checked out, Steve feels _safe._ He leans into Bucky's touch, taking in his warmth, feeling completely exhausted. With the last of his energy, Steve wraps his good arm around Bucky's waist—his surprisingly _solid_ waist—returning the hug in a weak little gesture. 

"I saw everything that happened out there. News covered it all day," Bucky says, pulling back just enough to look Steve over, just far enough to make sure that Steve is safe. Those blue eyes, those pink lips, the way his entire face scrunches up in care. It's the best thing Steve's seen all day. "God, you look like shit—what are you _doing_ here?"

"Well, thanks. Great customer service as always, here at the Martinelli public library," Steve says, jokingly.

That didn’t seem to help, judging from the way Bucky frowns at him. "No, seriously, Steve, have you even seen—?"

"Bucky. I'm okay. I got checked up, got a few stitches. Little bit of bleeding, none of it internal, and a few bruised bones,” Steve says, managing a little half-shrug. “I look like shit, but it's nothing I've never handled before."

Bucky looks down at the sling. "Your arm—"

"Fractured. Don't worry 'bout it."

Bucky pulls away quickly, settling his hands on Steve's shoulders, but staying at arm's length. Steve aches for that lost touch immediately.

"Shit, Steve," he says, looking over Steve again, "I'm sorry—I didn't even think—"

"No, no. I—uh. I liked that," Steve says, feeling a little bit bashful, for the first time that afternoon. "Besides, they say with a little bed rest I should be good within the week. Probably won't even feel it in the morning."

"Then why are you here?" Bucky asks again, furrowing his eyebrows in worry. "The doctor says you need to be in bed, so that means you need to be in bed. You need to be—"

"Bucky. Bucky. Just. Lemme talk for a second, alright?" Steve says, smiling tiredly. Bucky snaps his mouth shut, but his brows are still creased in worry. Steve wants to plant a kiss on his forehead, he wants to do that more than anything, but instead, he pushes that aside.

Instead, for what feels like the first time in a long time, Steve pushes aside his gut instincts, and _speaks._

"Today was—it—it was rough. We got caught off-guard by a classic redirect, and we had to scramble to minimize damage and casualties. We got surprised, and we were—as much as I can say for the Avengers—we were unprepared. You saw what happened. Haven't been hit that hard since the Sokovia thing. I got thrown into the _Bay,_ at what? Seventy miles per hour? I mean—theoretically, I could have died.”

“Jesus,” Bucky lets out, his voice somewhere between his _Mom tone_ and absolutely heartbreaking. “Steve—“

“Hey. Listen. I could’ve died. But I _didn't_. And when I came to, the first thing I thought, the very first thing that came into my head, was that I just—I just wanted to see you."

"Steve—" Bucky starts, before swallowing whatever it was he was going to say.

"I really, really like you, Bucky," Steve murmurs, pushing forward to slump his forehead against Bucky's. "And I—I know I hurt you. So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being chickenshit. And I’m sorry for not apologizing to you sooner. But—fuck, Bucky, I just—I didn't wanna go another day, another battle, without you knowing. That's what I'm here to tell you."

They stay like that for a little bit, silent, the both of them, while Steve’s words hang heavy in the air; while the emotional exhaustion of that day—of the weeks of tension before, of the _months_ of _if_ preceding even that—threaten to overtake the both of them, like the vast, inescapability of the pitch-black sea.

"Hey," Bucky says, softly, one hand moving to cup Steve's face, "Dolores and Nancy can lock up. I’ll make it up to them later. Let's get you home."

**\---**

Getting a ride in Brooklyn, they find out, is _much_ easier to do when you're carting around a wounded national hero in half his uniform. They arrive at Steve’s place without a hitch, and, given how much Bucky is worrying over him _as is,_ it’s a small blessing.

"Thanks for taking me home," Steve says, as Bucky helps him onto the couch, "Can't give you the full tour, but guest bathroom's first door to the right. My room's gonna be at the end of the hall, to your left. Don't think we'll need it, but I should have a first aid kit under the sink, in my bathroom."

"You have a nice place,” Bucky says with a nod, looking only at Steve, and not at all at his living room.

Steve nods back, or at least, tries to. He looks over Bucky, who’s already begun rolling up his sleeves, looking like he's ready and eager to jump into action, with Steve’s direction or without it. "I'm sorry for getting dirt and dried blood all over your nice sweater."

"You can buy me a new one," Bucky jokes, making his way to Steve's bedroom. "Or maybe I'll just steal something from your closet while I'm there. What do you think?"

"I think I'd _love_ to see you in one of my getups," Steve calls out. "I think red, white, and blue would be fitting for you. Might be a little bulky for the library, but you’d look good. Now, how do you feel about Kevlar?"

Bucky comes back after a minute, tossing a nicely-folded pile of clothes Steve’s way with a quick flick of his wrist. Steve hasn't seen so much of his prosthetic before. It's sleek, and rude as he knows it is, Steve can’t help but watch the way it moves, mesmerized.

"Very funny, Rogers," Bucky says, apparently not noticing, or too concerned with Steve's welfare to care. He's in the middle of tying his hair up into a little bun when Steve looks away from Bucky’s arm. How he does it so quickly and gets his hair to look so nice, Steve has no idea. "Now get changed. I’m assuming you keep your fridge and pantry stocked, yeah? ‘Cause I'm gonna make you some soup."

"Got a couple bruised ribs, not pneumonia, Buck," Steve teases. “But yes. Yes, I do.”

"It's for the _soul,_ Rogers. Now go get changed outta that thing. You smell. I'm gonna take over your kitchen. Yell if you need me," Bucky says. He pauses. "You don't—?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "I know how to get dressed while injured, Bucky. This ain't my first fistfight."

“Steve—“

“Seriously, Buck, I’m fine,” Steve says, half-harangued, though a soft, small little part of him _loves_ being fussed-over. “Go, go make some soup.”

“Yeah. Okay. Alright,” Bucky says, sounding not entirely convinced of Steve’s being _fine,_ but making his way to the kitchen, anyway.  

"Tell me the truth," Steve asks—just loud enough for Bucky to hear over the clanking of pots and pans and _whatever_ it is he’s doing in there—as he starts to get changed, slowly but surely, wincing only when he had to bend his bad arm. It wasn't so bad. The ache and sting that shot through his body whenever he moved was at least getting _better._ The pants just had _so many_ zippers. So many different parts _._ Maybe Banner had the right idea, with those ugly purple trunks. "Is this the worst date you've been on?"

"You telling me this is a date?" Bucky asks from the kitchen.

"It can be, if you want it to be," Steve calls out.

Steve thinks he can hear Bucky chuckle, under his breath, before he calls out to him. “Let’s see if you can get some food and rest in you first. _Then,_ we’ll talk.”

Steve mutters a _fine,_ with a little huff, and goes back to changing. It’s hard, especially when he has to take off the sling, but he’s able to manage. He’s done more with less mobility, before. He moves slow, reveling in the way that clean clothes feel on him, and wrapping a blanket around himself once he’s settled and feeling _relatively_ clean. 

That settled feeling has its downside, though, and eventually, the day’s events take their toll on Steve. Before he knows it, he jolts awake before he even realized he’s dozed off, and he has to readjust himself, forgetting, for only half a second, that the humming voice coming from his kitchen isn’t a threat, but someone special to him. And good thing, too, because the second that Steve’s nerves settle down, Bucky comes back into Steve’s living room, with what looks to be the best soup Steve has ever seen.

"Here,” Bucky says, setting down a tray laden with comforts: a pot of coffee, two mugs, and a near-overflowing bowl and a spoon. “Eat this. Lemme know if you want more. You're not getting up tonight. You need to be resting."

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says, feeling all warm at his edges, the temporary panic he’d felt earlier nowhere to be found.

Bucky nods, and heads back into the kitchen, returning after a few seconds with a bowl of his own and a sleeve of saltine crackers. As Steve takes some of the crackers, he can feel Bucky watching him, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, that Bucky does not start eating until after _he_ does. All of the attention makes Steve’s heart soar. He feels like he’s constantly blushing, as he and Bucky, wordlessly, eat their dinner, only the sounds of the city outside between them.  

“So,” Bucky says, breaking that silence, suddenly. Gently. “This is a date.”

He says it plainly, not looking up at Steve, as he pours some coffee into a mug. Steve swallows, and Bucky, as if to make a point, _sips._ Something about his tone, the way he draws out the _So_ , speaks without saying: _We are going to talk._  

“Yeah. I mean. Like I said, it is if you want it to be,” Steve says, sheepishly. Quietly.

Bucky hums, nodding. Staring straight ahead. “And that night a few weeks ago was—?”

Steve winces. “Buck, I—I’m—“

He’s sorry. Sorry beyond belief. But that’s not going to cut it, no matter how many times he says it. That’s not going to cut it at all.

“—I’m a—I know I’ve been sending—I haven’t been—I just. I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says, all the eloquence of before gone, all of it spent on his confession. “For everything. For the other night. For the last few weeks. For right now. It’s just—I’m not so great with this—the whole— _words. Feelings._ ”

Bucky gives Steve about a second’s pause before he speaks, frustratingly, almost _eerily_ unreadable, in the ways he gets sometimes.

“You _do_ know that TIME magazine ranked that speech you gave during the whole Hydra-in-S.H.I.E.L.D. thing in the top one-hundred speeches of all time, right?” he asks, eyes still trained straight ahead, as he undoes his bun and shakes out his hair.

Steve feels like a cliché the second the words are out of his mouth. “That’s _different._ ”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says, sounding unconvinced. “And that thing today, back in the library, it was—?”

“I—that was—it was different.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. Then, without a pause, “The other night really fucking hurt, Steve.”

“I’m sorry, I—I know.”

“And this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this.”

“I—I know.”

“And you _know_ , showing up bleeding at my job puts me in a really bad position if I _didn’t_ want to accept your apology. You know that, right?”

Steve winces. That, he _didn’t_ know. Or at least, he didn’t think about it.

Of all the things he didn’t overthink, going to Bucky immediately after leaving the hospital was not one of those things, and looking at it _now,_ with Bucky sitting on his couch next to him, looking like the most natural thing in the world, he can see how it works as a power play. He didn’t intend it, of course—but it _could have been._ And Bucky isn’t letting him off the hook for it. As he shouldn’t. Steve, not for the first time in this friendship—relationship—whatever it was going to come out to be, is having to face the fact that he is an _idiot._

Compared to his ego, the bruises on his ribs don’t hurt so much.

“I’m sorry,” Steve replies, not for the first time. That night took a turn quicker than the day’s mission had. For a second, Steve considers ways to make his leave, to put an end the situation, before he remembers that he’s in his own home. That, and Bucky has had more of Steve’s cowardice than any one person deserves.

To his apology, Bucky just gives him a look.

“I—I really am sorry, Buck. I’m sorry for putting you in a bad spot. I’m sorry for not thinking. And I’m sorry for not apologizing to you sooner. I’m sorry for—for what must feel like being strung around. I’m sorry that I can’t be straight with you. No pun intended,” he says, and Bucky smiles at that, closed-mouthed, and not reaching his eyes.

It’s a start, Steve thinks, with a heavy, heavy sigh.

“And—” he continues, toeing the line carefully, ever-so-carefully, but knowing exactly what he needs to be say. “—I’m really, really sorry that I hurt you. I—I fucked up, and I fucked up real bad, I know. And I’m not gonna make an excuse for it. I just want to say—I’m sorry. I really, really care about you, Bucky. And I haven’t treated you like I do. So—I’m sorry. For—for everything.”

When Steve is done speaking—when all those things unsaid, dammed up for weeks, _months_ —finally make their way out into the open, he feels deflated. And Bucky—unreadable, in the way that he has the power to become—says nothing.

Those dumb deep breathing exercises that Doctor Kaplan suggested were working really well, for once, judging from Steve’s decided _lack_ of a panic attack. Now, all he needed to do was exhale.

After what seems like an eternity, Bucky lets out a deep breath, and Steve, as if on the same wavelength, does, too.

“Thank you for apologizing,” Bucky says, with a nod. It’s about as much of an _I accept your apology_ as Steve will get. He doesn’t say a thing after that. And, as much as he itches to fill the silence, neither does Steve. For a while, at least. Instead, they sit there on Steve’s couch, the tension between them having ebbed, if only slightly, now that Steve has put all his cards on the table. They sit there in silence until Steve, determined to continue his streak of moving forward, of _doing what he needs to do._  

“So,” Steve says, his voice low. “What’s next?”

Bucky sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Steve so, so wishes it were his hands going through Bucky’s hair, that it were his hands brushing against Bucky’s skin like that.

“I dunno, Steve. I—you and me? I want this. _God,_ do I want this. Ever since you came into my DMs, ever since you became the only person who’s ever really _listened_ , I’ve been dreaming of—of _us._ I had feelings for you-as-Grant before I realized you were you. And I _still_ have feelings for you. I think the other night made that clear,” Bucky says, not looking at Steve. Something about that, about Bucky not meeting his gaze—makes Steve’s chest ache. “Or at least, I thought it did.”

And _that_ , Bucky’s confession, as vulnerable as Steve’s—is a blow. The ache in Steve’s chest turns into a _sting,_ sharp and, Steve fully knew, self-inflicted.  

“But the thing is, Steve, I can’t tell what _you_ want. I don’t know if you _really_ want us or not. Each time I think I’m _sure_ that you want me, too, you pull away from me. Like today, you tell me you want me, you tell me you wanna be with me, but only after a week of _just friends?_ What do you _want_ , Steve?”

“I want you, Bucky. I want you more than _anything._ When I’m on away missions, all I can think of is finishing up as quickly as possible so I can get back home to you,” Steve sighs, his hands shaking. “But—fuck, Bucky. I—I’ve never—I’ve never _been_ with someone before, not like I wanna be with you, but I’m—I think—”

He sighs. Bucky is watching him now, those blue, blue eyes trained on him like the sight of a rifle. Steve doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than Bucky not looking at him at all. But he continues, anyway.

“I think I’m _afraid,_ Bucky. Not of the world knowing I like you. If people and the press want to say something about me for being with you, they can do what they wanna do. But I—I’m afraid for what being with me will do for _you._ You’re gonna get caught up in the fallout of me, Buck. I’m afraid of you getting hurt because of me, and I don’t wanna expose you to that,” Steve says. He takes a long, shuddering breath, and lets it out, hoping that the tears don’t start. Not now. God, not now. He needs to say this, and he needs his voice to be clear, as he does. “And—I dunno. I think—most of all, I’m afraid that—I dunno. That I don’t deserve you.”

Bucky stares at Steve with an intensity that practically _chills_ the room. Unblinking, Bucky fixes his eyes on Steve for almost a full minute before he sighs, no anger nor charm in his voice: “You’re a fucking idiot, Steve.”

“Sorry?”

“First of all, I’ve already gotten caught up in the _fallout of you._ This is why we’re having this conversation, Steve. And you know what? I think I’m doing just fine. So, we’ve already crossed that bridge. We’ve _passed_ that bridge. We’re five miles beyond that bridge,” Bucky says, his voice as sharp as Steve has ever heard it. “Second. Steve. I’m a grown man. Do you not think I _realize_ the dangers that come with being with you? Do you think I would’ve taken you home and made you soup if I _didn’t_ recognize that being with you wouldn’t be like being with anyone else in Brooklyn—or, fuck, in the world? I wouldn’t’ve gone on all those walks with you if I _didn’t_ recognize the probability of danger that you bring with you.”

Steve, not for the first time in his life, feels like an absolute idiot. And, not for the first time in his life, he _knows_ he deserves it.  

“And you know what, Steve? I’m okay with it. I mean—shit, Steve, I was military, too. I got this shiny metal arm to show for it, in case you ever forget. So, you know, I think I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”

Steve winces, only in _part_ because of how glib Bucky was being about losing a limb. Bucky was right. He really _was_ a fucking idiot.  

“And third of all, Steve. You deserve the fucking world. Not just because you’ve stopped alien invasions and Nazi takeovers, but just because—because you’re a _great guy,_ Steve. Yeah, you get your head stuck in your ass sometimes, but other than that, you’re a great guy. And I don’t know how many times I have to hint this, or say this, or spell it to you, but Steve. _I want you._ Whether you think you deserve me or not, I _want you_. I want to _be with you_. Since the day I met you, I’ve wanted you.”

They’re close now, both of them having shifted to the middle of the couch, a physical corollary to finally—however difficultly—closing the deep emotional distance between them.

“So—” Steve starts, trailing off, his words failing him, as they tend to do, when it comes to Bucky. Luckily, Bucky knows just what to say.  

“So, are we doing this, or not, Rogers?”

”I—” Steve starts, anxious and excited and _determined,_ all at once. He wants to. More than _anything,_ he wants to. The _what ifs_ bounce and echo around in his mind, more a lowgrade buzz in the back of his brain, than anything. Bucky seems to have successfully beaten them into submission.

And with the noise in his head far less overwhelming, Steve Rogers, with all the bravery he has, _finally_ makes his choice.  

“Yes,” he breathes out, eventually, and it feels like the first time he’s been able to exhale in a long, long time. “Yes, we’re doing this. We’re—I’m— _okay_.”

Bucky nods at that. Steve swallows, still feeling like Bucky is waiting on him to make another move. “Now, before we—before we make this _official._ Can I ask you for something?”

“Anything,” Steve says, and he means it. If Bucky asked him for the moon, Steve would get in touch with NASA the minute he asked.  

“Talk to me, Steve. Just—talk to me. Okay?”

“Yes. Yes,” Steve says, “Okay.”

“And give me credit, Steve. Give me credit for my choices. I’ll be patient and generous with you, if you be patient and generous with me. Okay, Steve? Promise me?”

“Promise, Buck,” Steve says, “I’ll—I’m gonna do my best. I promise you. I will.”

“So—” Bucky says, drawing that short little word out, slow. “Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, feeling a little weepy. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, sounding and looking just as exhausted as Steve, but seemingly glowing, all the same. “So, I guess—I guess we’re a _thing_ now?”

“Yeah, I—” Steve starts, and he feels overwhelmed, just saying it. “I’d say we’re a thing.”

That’s when Bucky breaks out into a grin, wide and brilliant and the most beautiful goddamn thing that Steve has ever, _ever_ seen. It’s enough for Steve to forget how banged-up he is, enough for the ease to dissipate out of his healing stitches and aching bones. Not for the first time, and surely not for the last, Bucky has truly lifted the weight of _Captain America,_ the weight of the _world,_ off Steve’s broad shoulders. The only difference is, this time, Steve feels like he could just _soar,_ because of it.  

And Bucky—Steve’s _boyfriend,_ Bucky!—looks just as happy. Even as he bumps their foreheads together again, just like Steve did in the library, all those hours ago, Steve can’t stop _looking_ at him. Just _looking_ at Bucky—at his infectious grin, at the little crinkle of the corners of his eyes, at the way his soft, brown hair frames all the contours and sharp edges of his face just _perfectly_ —warms Steve all the way up.

“Good,” is all Bucky says, his voice low and tender and _vulnerable._ And that, more than anything, more than his concession earlier, is Bucky accepting Steve’s apology. That single word, more than anything, is Bucky saying to Steve, without the exact words: _I forgive you._ “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, well, I just needed a little help,” Steve jokes.

The laugh that he gets out of that—the low, soft, huff of a laugh—is worth _both_ their weight in gold. And Steve was a _dense_ guy, given the serum.  

"You know," Bucky says, after a moment, a timeless moment, one of soft, silent affection shared between them. His voice is almost a _sigh._ "Usually, I don't come up to somebody's apartment on the first date."

"I'm not most somebodies," Steve replies, practically murmuring.

"For better or worse, you’ve got that right."

“Jerk,” Steve laughs, his voice dripping with open affection; there isn’t a _hint_ of malice in his voice.

And then, as natural as if through the sheer force of the earth’s magnetism, it just _happens_. Steve leans in, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, as Bucky, carefully, _carefully,_ leans towards Steve, too. When their lips meet, it’s honest-to-God _electric;_ Steve feels every nerve in his body, every cell, every molecule, light up, as if kissing Bucky were the catalyst to the very first sunrise. He tastes, faintly, of coffee, and his lips are just as soft as they look. It’s all Steve could have dreamed of and more; it all, faintly, still feels unreal, no matter how _real_ Bucky’s face feels against Steve’s cupped palm.

“Wow,” Steve breathes, the second they part ways, like ripples, like waves, and not at all like the separating of seas. Bucky almost hides in his own hair, from the way he ducks. He’s not blushing, but he looks pretty damn close.

“Wow, _you_ ,” Bucky says, just as quietly. And they sit like that, quietly, comfortably, like they are the only two souls in the world. Steve, like a schoolboy, like Bucky is his first brush with love, looks away—torn between being unable to look directly at Bucky, and being unable to look away.  

“Hey,” Steve says, quietly, “Could you—I mean—”

“Yeah?” he asks, all attention on Steve.  

“Could you stay with me? Just a little bit longer.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, Steve,” Bucky says, wrapping his left arm around Steve’s waist, gentle. He says it in a way that makes it seem like he had no intentions to leave, anyway. “Of course.”

Steve hums happily at this, slumping his head against Bucky’s shoulder. He feels exhausted, but content.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Bucky asks, his voice low.  

Steve nods, though he can already tell he’s not going to be able to make it through whatever they watch. “I’d like that, yeah.

“Alright. You wanna pick?” Bucky asks, and Steve shakes his head. “That’s fine. I think there’s a Katherine Hepburn movie on Netflix, anyway.”

There is, indeed, a Katherine Hepburn movie on Netflix, and Bucky puts it on, as promised. It’s a fine enough movie, Steve’s sure, but he’s not paying any attention to what’s happening on screen. Instead, he’s taking in the moment—taking in Bucky, at his side, in Steve’s apartment, in their own little peaceful corner of their very much chaotic city. At least for that moment, the weight of the world and the incredible pressure that weight put on him, feels lifted. For the first time in a long time, Steve feels like he can let his guard down.

And with that, before he knows it, Steve, floating higher than he can ever remember, drifts off to sleep.  

**\---**

Steve wakes up late into the morning, feeling rested. Feeling renewed. And, in spite of it all, feeling _good._

Then, the ache of the previous day sets in, and he feels significantly less so.

Steve slumps into his pillows, grateful for the ludicrous softness of his mattress and all the excessive comforts the new century had to offer. Grateful, that is, until he slowly realizes:

_He's not in the same place he fell asleep._

There was no way that Bucky could have carried him to bed, not without him remembering. It would be damn-near impossible for an average person to carry Steve undisturbed, _especially_ given how much he’d been put through the ringer the day before.

Panicked, Steve retraces the previous night, looking back to each moment—to dinner, to Bucky’s ultimatum, to pouring his heart out, to their _first kiss_ —and finds himself equal parts assured that last night was _real,_ and horrified at the prospect of it all being a dream. Perhaps too fast than he should have, considering his injuries, Steve throws his sheets off himself in one slick movement, hoping beyond hope that he wasn't so out of it after stumbling out of Avengers Tower that he made up the entire evening.

Steve's heart drops the moment he makes his way to his living room, only to find it completely, impeccably, in order. No dishes scattered around his coffee table, no pillows strewn on the floor, nothing. Not a single fold on his throw blanket seems out of place. As tears of frustration quickly threatening to overtake him, Steve looks over his kitchen, hoping to see something—anything—as a sign that Bucky was there, only to find it equally unassuming. Everything is clean. Even the sink is clear.

Just as he’s about to give up hope, just as he’s begun the first stages of that familiar, spiraling cycle of self-blame and self-doubt— _This? Your hurt? All on you, my friend, all on you for letting your guard down like this—_ Steve looks to the stovetop, and he sees it: proof. On his stovetop, tucked onto the one burner he never uses, is proof that the previous night actually _happened_ , physical and undeniable, in the form of his stockpot, wonderfully out of place, a bright orange post-it note tacked to its lid.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Steve makes his way into his kitchen. He picks the post-it off the lid, smiling, relieved. Bucky's handwriting is neat and familiar, and all of Steve's worries melt as he reads the note, leaving behind nothing but comfort; warm, fuzzy, _loving_ comfort.

> _Steve —_
> 
> _Sorry about ditching without saying goodbye, had to get back to my place to get ready for work & I didn't wanna wake you. I’ll stop by after work tonight. _
> 
> _Soup's for you. Should be enough so you don't have to cook for today. Call and/or text me if you need me. Or if you just wanna talk. Either way :)_
> 
> _Stay in bed. Rest up. Don’t do anything stupid ‘till I get back._
> 
> _— Bucky_

There's a little heart after Bucky's name. It's simple, it's sweet, and Steve couldn’t be happier. He decides his breakfast is going to be a bowl of Bucky's soup and a nice, strong pot of coffee, and he makes a mental note to start that—but not before snapping a picture of the post-it note and DMing it to Bucky.

> _@sgr_art: You're the best. How did I get so lucky?_

Bucky _likes_ it immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised i would make this chapter less painful, didn’t i? 
> 
> jumping straight into the things for this chapter:
> 
> \- again, just like last chapter, a billion thanks to my writing partner/beta reader/editor, emily for helping me through this really pivotal chapter. and for reminding me of details i consistently forget, with how many moving parts this fic has (and will have). i cannot emphasize my absolute gratitude enough.
> 
> \- i've also been solidifying and fine-tuning the details of where this fic will be going, both in the long and short-term, so, if you’re curious: this isn’t quite close to the end. my projections still go to about – eh, about 120k? which. this did not start out as potentially 120k. again, as this fic moves forward, keep an eye on the tags and the rating changes. because they will change. that is a hint.
> 
> \- i had (and have) a lot of difficulty when it comes to the more military-like stuff of the avengers universe. i'm hoping to be better at it in the future, but for the time being, hopefully this bit worked? i'm still reconsidering rewriting it, even now. anyway, i’m not an expert strategist, i just write ‘em. hopefully they’re something resembling good.
> 
> \- as far as i know, there isn’t actually an abandoned nuclear launch site in the middle of new york bay, however, there are lots of nuclear test and plant sites near high-population centers along the atlantic coast of the united states. the closest thing in reality to this situation, though, is the [shoreham nuclear power plant](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shoreham_Nuclear_Power_Plant), off long island.
> 
> \- initially, i had claire as steve’s nurse, but i decided against it, seeing as not only have i only ever watched the first season of luke cage so i’m not too familiar with her character, but also because i don’t think she would be working at stark industries/with the avengers if she was given the offer. so: shiela, who i'm going to pretend is sharon’s cousin.
> 
> \- when i first started outlining this chapter, [desk set](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desk_Set) was on netflix, which i thought was a pretty funny reference for this fic. it's not on there anymore, but know that's probably what they're watching. probably. 
> 
> \- speaking of libraries, i will be visiting the Greatest City In The World™ later this summer for reasons of both "i need to get out of the los angeles and greater southern california area bubble before i start screaming in public" and to do some research at the new york public library's archives. i'm breaking out my pink tulle skirt, and if that gives you any indication to the fun/self-care:research ratio of my trip, there you go.
> 
> anyway, that's it for now. getting parts of this fic done is my project for camp nanowrimo, but it's been slow-going, given that i've been taking more grad classes this semester than i have in previous semesters. gotta get through that coursework done soon, you know. so, just a reminder that i don't have a posting schedule for this fic because i can't promise that it will get done in any sort of set way, but i do try to update fairly frequently on my [tumblr tag](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/tagged/hot-librarian-au) for this fic. 
> 
> all that said — thank you a billion times over for all the love and patience with this fic as it continues. it means, truly, the most. all the comments, all the support, it seriously, means more than i can ever say. thank you so much, again <3


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